


Bloodstream

by notenuffcaffeine, technologykilledreality



Series: Monster [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adorable Jordan Parrish, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Crazy Peter, Derek Hale & Jordan Parrish Bromance, Gender Roles, Human Trafficking, Kidnapping, M/M, Manipulative Peter, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Omega Verse, POV Jordan Parrish, POV Stiles, Pack Dynamics, Poor Stiles, Post S4, Protective Derek, Rare Pairings, Stiles Has Panic Attacks, Stilinski Family Feels, Wolf Derek Hale, Zen Derek Hale, canon compliant through s4, canon still happened so that means that Stalia was a thing here but it is no more, dream walking, except allison doesn't die, future fic sorta, hunters are not your friends, omega dynamics, oops stiles stepped in it, peter is not just an uncle, ravens and crows, scott and stiles are bros with communication issues, senior year in beacon hills, society sucks, stiles enters Dating Hell, stiles has a very bad month, what's a parrish?, what's a stiles?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 07:39:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 83,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3319430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notenuffcaffeine/pseuds/notenuffcaffeine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/technologykilledreality/pseuds/technologykilledreality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was all too real and Jordan shoved to the front, trying to interrupt the dream however he could. It wasn’t a fire, it wouldn’t even give the illusion of going out, but just kept going on around him. Stiles didn’t do so well in the fight that played out and Jordan couldn’t help at all. Slowed from the impact against the door, Stiles was pulled into the middle of the hall and surrounded by a basketball team of bullies. Then someone was in his face, hands fisted in his shirt collar to make Stiles look at him.</p><p>"You think you're better than everyone, huh?" the kid demanded. "Some stupid omega who knows everything and can just skip tracks. Pretend to be an alpha, screw with everyone so we have to play along. You wanna be both?"</p><p>Whatever Stiles said in return wasn’t what the kid wanted to hear but the dream... glitched. </p><p>- or - </p><p>Jordan doesn't know what he is, but he may or may not be going a little crazy. Meanwhile, Stiles has a hard time adjusting to the Omega Track. He hasn't made any new friends, he can't keep track of the friends he already has, and he's got the worst luck in the world when it comes to dating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic high-jacked my brain and jumped to the front of the line... It's baaack! 
> 
> This fic's a little darker (!?!?!) and again, all the feelz you didn't sign up for. Sorry, not sorry. :)
> 
> __________________

The first day of hell was on a Wednesday because his old life had died exactly one week earlier. Stiles thought himself older and wiser for the experience, but he was still pissed off about it not very far below the surface. So his dad didn't let him drive to school. And he would be back to pick him up afterward. His dad wasn't going to forget Stiles' self-guided tour of San Francisco any time soon, and that made two of them because Stiles had only told him maybe half of what went on. He would rather be chauffeured to school than spill the full story.

The registrar gave him his new schedule and told him he was early, but Stiles just dismissed it. Yes he was there early, it had been carefully planned and coordinated, because he had planned to pick up his new schedule before class. The Omega Track classes were on the opposite end of the school from where Stiles was used to being. He needed the extra time to get used to it.

He hadn't planned on sitting in the foreign and empty Home Ec room for forty five minutes though. By himself. With nothing to do because his backpack had nothing in it out of protest to the change in tracks. He had an empty notebook and a pen and that was it. He found a few books on a shelf and made himself grab one to read, hoping for a preview of what he was in for. He skimmed five pages and put the book back, too bored to bother. The next book was downright infuriating and he didn't even last two pages before he dropped it on the floor and kicked it toward the bookshelf. He wasn't picking out another book. No way in hell. It was forty five minutes of his life that he would never get back, so he took a nap on the couch in the back of the room instead. His alternative was to walk out and quit school entirely. He fell asleep thinking about trying it.

The usual tracks started at 7:45 am. That was what the school bells were set to alert people of. There was no bell for the omegas' schedule. His only clue that class started at 8:30 was the teacher walking in at 8:25. The door rattling woke him up from what was barely a doze and Stiles sat up rather than sprawl.

His new teacher noticed him right off. She frowned at him as she gave him the once over.

"You're Mr. Stilinski?" she asked.

"No, I'm Stiles," he replied. He stood up because he was getting the impression napping in Home Ec was frowned upon in Mrs. Malcolm's proper establishment.

"No, you're Mr. Stilinski," she corrected him. "It's a form of due respect. You have a title, so your peers should use it to address you and vice versa. You'll get used to it rather quickly I think. Most students like it."

But Stiles didn't like it. His Dad was Mr. Stilinski. He had a title, he was the sheriff. Stiles was _Stiles_. But he didn't say anything. He didn't really have a chance. Mrs. Malcolm was talking again and walking, expecting him to follow, to hang up his backpack on the rack on the wall, and his over shirt and jacket, both.

"There is something like a dress-code in these classes, not a uniform or anything drastic, but the aim is that you'll learn something of fashion. What to wear in what situation, what is appropriate, all of that," said Mrs. Malcolm. She wasn't rude or cold about it, but she was very direct and Stiles wasn't sure what to do with it. He stared down at his clothes, confused. Mrs. Malcolm continued on. "That starts on the daily attire. We want professional but casual. You can make an impression and still be comfortable."

"What does that even mean?" Stiles blurted before he caught himself.

"Well, for now, it means _no_ with the over shirt. Tomorrow and the rest of the semester, it means no t-shirts, really, until you learn how to wear them. Which you will, but it's... nuanced. You will have to experience these things to understand. So you can't go wrong with a button-down. As long as it is clean. And you iron it."

Stiles stared, jaw slack, as the woman moved away to pick up the books he had left on the floor and put them back in their places on the shelf. Then she moved to a seemingly random desk and told him that was where he would sit. Assigned seating. Because it cut down on drama, everyone knowing where their place was day in and day out. And then the door opened and chattering people wandered in. Stiles hung back and just watched as happy students hung up their coats and claimed their seats, everyone talking to each other as they went, comfortable with being there. Like every other class Stiles had ever been in. Except the guys' shirts were all ironed and some of them wore khakis instead of jeans and they all looked like they had stepped out of a Sears catalog.

Why the hell was he paying attention to what other people were wearing?

There was a horrifying moment when Stiles thought he was going to panic. He felt stress and worry and confusion, because everything was familiar and yet wrong. This wasn't what he was used to, but he was at school. He _knew_ school. _This_ wasn't what he knew.

He was still staring, stupid, out at the class when Mrs. Malcolm introduced him to everyone. Suddenly everyone was looking back at him and Mrs. Malcolm was inviting a room full of strangers to introduce themselves to their new classmate as they had a chance throughout the day. Then she asked him to have a seat at his desk so they could get the class started.

Stiles' day had started two hours earlier, when he thought he had a pretty good handle on the world. He didn't have a clue what to do with it now.

 

***

 

Deputy Parrish preferred tea in the mornings. He had learned to like tea from his dad. Tea was calming and peaceful, the healthy choice to start the morning with. Just enough caffeine to kick-start but not enough to cause damage. There was a nice cafe in town that did custom blends and he had his preferred brew.

But then there were other mornings - more mornings than he would ever admit to his dad - where he just needed coffee and the world was a happier place for letting him have it. It was with a pang of guilt that Jordan collected his travel mug of black coffee and headed out the door. He tried to stay on his game, tried to follow his dad’s example, but it just wasn’t going to work today. He got to work on time, changed into his uniform, and started checking the reports on his desk to be sure they were complete before he filed them. He checked in on Sheriff Stilinski, got an update on the man’s delinquent son; Stiles had started back to school that morning and the sheriff kept looking at the phone like he expected it to explode. He was expecting problems. Parrish didn’t blame him.

The morning passed mostly uneventful. No calls demanded his personal attention. It was unnaturally boring. Deputy Parrish got fidgety and set out on his rounds before the usual rush of lunch hour could hit. There was a fender-bender a few blocks from the high school and Parrish was there to take the report. He supervised the exchange of information and saw both parties to the accident safely on their way, no life-threatening dramas happening even though they could have. Then he stopped in at the grocery store nearby to pick up his lunch since it was close.

He was mentally debating between the deli and the Chinese food options when the man in line at the counter started ordering his own meal. The voice bugged Jordan, just too familiar, but he couldn’t figure out quite why. Curiosity made the decision for him and Jordan chose Chinese food just for the excuse to investigate. It wasn’t until he was in line that he caught the man’s profile and could put a face to the voice. Peter Hale, the crazy responsible for all the insanity a year earlier, and yet too crazy to be held accountable for anything. Not crazy enough to be kept institutionalized, however. They just didn’t have the proof. It was a familiar story in Beacon Hills.

The deputy didn’t have to make his presence known to keep the peace. Hale looked over at him and Jordan noticed the subtle sniff of the air. He had the man’s full attention.

“Good morning, Deputy,” said Peter. Jordan glanced at his watch.

“Afternoon now, actually,” he replied.

“Ah, the days blur a bit when you don’t have a schedule to keep,” said Peter, shrugging off the correction. Despite himself, Jordan wanted to rile the man. Maybe not provoke him into a fight, but he wanted to irritate the stranger as much as Peter Hale irritated him, just by existing. That was probably a high goal to strive for.

“I can’t help but notice you’re keeping a schedule of some sort awfully close to the high school,” said Parrish. Again, the older man shrugged it off, not concerned at all.

“My nephew is there to visit friends. I’m here to wait them out,” said Peter. “You’re welcome to take it up with them.”

That made a certain sense, but at the same time, it gnawed at Jordan more than he cared to admit. “Derek went to see Stiles at school?”

“I don’t know why he’s coddling the boy, but Lydia apparently gets what Lydia wants, and she apparently wants Stiles to have a babysitter on his lunch break,” said Peter.

“Probably for the afternoon,” said Jordan, thinking out loud more than talking to Peter. “That track is off early on Wednesdays. There’s an extra bus schedule.”

He suddenly had Peter’s undivided attention. “What track, exactly?”

Jordan was stuck on that one. He wasn’t going to blab the change in tracks to Peter Hale. Instead, he nodded toward the clerk waiting patiently behind the counter with Peter’s food. “Your lunch is ready.”

“That’s nice,” said Peter, not at all interested. “Are you telling me our dear sweet omega summer child Stiles has switched tracks? He’s finally embracing his nature?”

“How would you know-”

“Please, anyone with a nose knows,” replied Peter. He sniffed again and studied Jordan. It raised alarms for the deputy but the man looked away before he could be called on it. He collected his food, paid for it, and then raised a polite toast toward Jordan with his bag of egg rolls. “Have a good afternoon, Deputy.”

That had definitely not gone as Jordan had expected it to and, for a moment, he just stared after Peter Hale to be sure the man left the store. The Hales were definitely weird. Jordan had already decided that that one though was just crazy.

 

***

 

Stiles showed up at lunch feeling rumpled and stupid and pissed off. The Omega Track didn't overlap with the regular lunch schedule the same. Plus it was a Wednesday so he had to leave campus, not just take a lunch. There was about a fifteen minute window of overlap though and that was because it was assumed that people on the Omega Track had family or a fiancé or something in an Alpha Track.

Stiles had never heard the word _alpha_ so many times in four hours in his life. And not once that morning was it associated with _werewolves_. He was sure he had heard of it in his research when he was younger and it shouldn't have surprised him but he nearly lost his shit in his first class when Mrs. Malcolm referred to his old class schedule as the Alpha Track. _Alpha track_. As in, Scott was an Alpha ( _werewolf_ ) on the Alpha human track, while Stiles was just an Omega human on the Omega track. The werewolf world had leaked all over the omega world and Stiles finally had something he really, really wanted to talk to Scott about because, well... _What the actual fuck?_

He crashed onto the bench across from Scott with just under ten minutes to spare.

"Ohmygodudethisshitisinsane," he rushed out. Scott stared at him wide eyed.

"You're back! Why weren't you in class?" Scott asked. It took Stiles a minute to remember he hadn't told Scott. He cringed and hid his face behind his hands. He hadn't hardly talked to Scott in a week, just text messages and a couple short phone calls. Because Stiles was a chickenshit who couldn't figure out how to just tell his best friend that he had been right and that Stiles had screwed up everything and... Well, mostly because it really wasn't easy to say out loud that Scott had been right about the party. And now he was stuck in this new crazy life and hadn't even warned Scott.

"I had to switch tracks..." Stiles said carefully. Scott nodded.

"That's what Coach said. But come on. You could have kept _some_ of them-"

"No, man. I tried. This is like... Not the same at all. I wanna go back and they won't let me," Stiles said, quick to interrupt. "The classes are longer or at least they feel like it and people keep freaking _petting my head_ , okay? I have never been hugged by so many freaking strangers in my life as I have on this stupid track."

Obviously reconsidering his sanity, Scott blinked at him. Stiles could only think to nod because he was very aware of the time. He wanted to share. The track sucked. He needed a friend to rant to. He had hardly any time to squeeze it all in to as it was. It just had to be done for the sake of his sanity.

"Seriously! You don't even know, okay? That's how they say _hi_ to me as the new kid. I got hugs, I got shoulder pats. Somebody pet my head, okay? I don't... I don't _do_ that and my space bubble has been _seriously_ invaded," he said. Scott didn't look like he approved but he didn't exactly look like he understood, either.

"I give you hugs," said Malia from next to Stiles. He startled, surprised by how close she was; his attention had been on Scott and he hadn't noticed the others at all.

"Yeah, but I know you. And I know Scott and I know Lydia so I don't care when you guys invade the bubble. These were people I don't know," he explained.

"But you know them now," Malia helpfully pointed out. Stiles stared at her.

"But I don't _want_ to know them."

Malia nodded. "And now you know why I punched you."

That one struck Stiles momentarily stupid. She had a point.

"Stiles can't punch his classmates, sweetie," said Lydia from the other side of Scott. She backed it up with a very arched eyebrow just to be sure Stiles understood that it was not allowed. He blinked at her and then shook his head.

"This place has like this whole other weird twilight zone world going on in the Omega wing. And that's _the_ _other thing!_ " he said. He tapped a finger on the table like a woodpecker knocking on a tree. "It's the Omega track, right? But you guys, you're on the Alpha track. That's what it's called."

Lydia frowned at him. "You didn't know that?"

"No! Well, I might have heard of it before but it didn't click..." Stiles waved at Scott. "Alpha on the alpha track. Come on. _This_ is where my brain has been. On him and the Hales and the whole hunter thing. For two years. Not this other crap. Wrong Alpha entirely."

Scott frowned at him, not really approving of the entire conversation. "But you're not an alpha. That's why they made you do this. You have to learn how to take care of you."

That hurt. For a moment a pin could have been heard dropping off the linoleum floor and the noise of the cafeteria went to a low buzz, an unimportant static. Scott, of all people, hadn't really said that to him, right? There was no way Scott would side with the school on something as important as Stiles’ sanity.

"I do take care of me," Stiles managed finally. "I have to because nobody else can keep up with you guys. And I can't do that if I get sick because I don't take care of me, okay? Jeezus, Scott-"

"No you don't, Stiles. This is all part of it. You were in with us and it made this happen now," said Scott. "You're freaking out, man. Over _School_. Okay? That's not normal. You don't know what you need to know and you don’t know it because you were worried about the alphas. And I mean us, not the... Not the alpha pack. Just regular people, alphas. You should have been able to worry about you."

"Don't even- I'm fine with the omega thing, okay? I have been for years. It's not new," argued Stiles.

"You didn't tell anybody," said Liam. The baby-member of Scott's pack sat on the end of the table between Lydia and Malia.

"Stiles is under no obligation to tell anyone his physiology may be different from theirs," cut in Lydia. "It's not a matter of public record. It's his life. If you wanted to know, you could have asked."

"Please don't," added Stiles. He could too easily imagine Liam actually going up to random people and asking if they were omegas suddenly. Malia definitely would and that was actually the last thing anybody wanted. Liam's attention pinged between Lydia and Stiles.

"But you always said you were human." Liam looked confused. "Now you can have babies?"

"I am human. I said I was _better_ ," said Stiles. "And I never said I wanted kids."

Malia was having a much harder time putting the pieces together. "But human _guys_ -"

"Blame the fairies. Leave it alone," said Stiles.

"Huh?" asked Liam.

"What are fairies?" Malia immediately wanted to know. Sanity was a hard-won commodity these days and Stiles set his jaw and waited for a moment to calm.

"Just trust me. Human. _Better_. No special powers. No claws and fangs-"

"But _you_ can have _babies_!" Liam didn't help and Malia nodded her agreement with his question.

"So can like three quarters of the population!" said Stiles. "Human non-omega males are the minority here. Women and omega women and omega men can pop out babies. The _whole planet_ is popping out babies, except you and Scott and Derek. Can we just be cool with that?"

While Liam looked like he had just had a new perspective opened in his brain, Malia looked somehow more confused.

"I don't get it," she said. Stiles crossed his arms on his backpack on the table - breaking so many rules of etiquette - and buried his face in the crook of his arm.

"Argh."

The first bell rang then and like Pavlovian dogs, the Scott McCall pack - thankfully missing Isaac and Kira both, Stiles wasn't sure he could have handled their snark just then, - started shoving trash in lunch bags and standing up. He looked up at Scott, at something of a loss as to how to read his supposed best friend.

"You're kidding, right? You're leaving-"

"Class," said Scott. He grabbed his backpack and looked over at Stiles. "We'll talk after school."

"You've got practice after school, it's Wednesday," said Stiles. Yeah, he was a _little_ bitter. "I _would_ see you after school but I got kicked off the team. I'm supposed to leave."

To his credit, Scott looked actually sad about that. He didn't look anything near happy. He reached out and ruffled Stiles' hair. That added a new layer of offended after an entire morning of strangers doing that and Stiles raised an arm to block. It mostly worked and Scott left. Lydia still sat across the table, watching him, like maybe he was going to snap. Stiles just dropped his head to his backpack again.

"Go to class," he muttered. "I got it."

Lydia shrugged and picked at her apple. "I'm eating," she replied. "And you're still the worst liar I have ever met."

 

***


	2. Chapter 2

The fun fact discovered Wednesday afternoon was that Stiles didn’t own an iron, let alone an ironing board. His dad cheated and had his uniform taken to the cleaners when there was something requiring formality like ironing. He had leather polish, he took care of his boots and his belt and his gear all the time, but the ironing thing? That was a big fat _not happening_. Stiles checked the attic but it hadn’t been saved with any of his mom’s old things and all the trip to the attic really accomplished was to mess him up in the head a little more than he already was. It was all his mom’s stuff up there, they kept the stuff they actually needed every once in a great while in the garage. The attic... was not their favorite place. And it did not produce any magical irons with which to flatten his shirts so that he looked casually professional.

He found an old necklace of his mom’s though, one he didn’t know existed, a linked silver-colored chain with his dad’s old dogtags on them. The back of the tags had pictures sealed on with glue or modgepodge or something that protected the photos; one was of his parents’ wedding and the other of Stiles when he was only three. One of the rules of attire for the Omega Track was jewelry, something tasteful and simple and not gaudy or expensive because they had to wear it to school. No big watches, no stupid pocket-watches because they were in the modern era and not the 1920s. Rings were supposed to be for guys who were engaged or married, or for guys who cared to remember which finger _not_ to wear them on. Stiles always played with things on his hands so any ring he ever wore would inevitably end up on every possible finger at some point over the course of the day and it wasn’t worth the risk. And he hated cufflinks with a fiery passion and _no_ , he would never, ever, ever wear a tie to _school_. The dogtags disappeared under his shirt easy and the chain was just visible enough to make it look like he tried. So the necklace went downstairs with him and he would just have to figure out a way to keep his dad from finding out he stole it, because it wasn’t going back in the attic again, ever.

It wasted an hour and it didn’t find him an iron. After the attic he spent another hour online shooting things until he felt better. Only then did he tackle the problem he had been putting off by looking for an iron in the first place: his closet. He had t-shirts. He had four different colors of jeans. There was a pair of corduroy pants from the seventh-grade-mistake era that he figured could look stupid enough to count for Mrs. Malcolm’s rules of acceptable school attire. Stiles tackled the project like it was a uniform. It wasn’t as much fun because there were no Catholic schoolgirls involved but it was the best he could do. His selection was limited. He emptied the entire closet out onto his bed and stacked clothes up by _potentials-according-to-the-sent-home-guideline-sheet_ and then by jeans, t-shirts, over-shirts, and a big pile on the floor of _no-way-in-hell_. Included in the latter pile was a leather biker vest he had gotten for a Halloween costume four years ago, the suit he had worn to various different events which he didn’t want to be reminded of at school, and the corduroys from junior high which were going to _remain buried_.

Basically, if he went by the sheet of guidelines, he would have to go shopping and spend roughly three hundred dollars on a week’s worth of clothes. Just a single week. It was recommended that students have more than seven coordinated outfits because variety made things more interesting for everyone involved. The point was to find a style natural to the student that was fashionable and would be something they could stick with. Stiles was not going to find a style “more natural to the student” than the one he already rocked and he resented the entire assignment.

Because he had skipped the Omega Track and gone to regular Alpha Track classes starting in seventh grade, Stiles was deemed to be at least four years behind his peers and that meant extra work. Part of that extra work was to revamp his clothes and closet. It was an actual assignment. He couldn't ignore it.

It occurred to him that he could cheat, he could call Lydia and she could solve the entire thing in five minutes. But he didn’t want to give the new track the pleasure of kicking his ass on the first day. His solution was to do it himself, which meant research, which meant he went online, downloaded every major-retail-clothing-outlet catalog he could find, and spent two hours sorting through things that were way too expensive. The principle of it made his eyes want to bleed, but by the end of it he was ogling models and had completely zoned out on clothes. Then he attacked the piles of clothes and made new piles of clothes, with roughly the same categories but entirely different and more informed selections in them. If the shirt had a design on it, it was for the weekends only. If the colors of the overshirt were too loud or obnoxious, it also didn’t make the cut. However, plain t-shirts and _clean_ jeans with no holes in them (both important distinctions) and low-key overshirts would work, as long as they were color coordinated. That realization started a brief mental tangent that lasted five minutes wherein Stiles wondered if Derek was colorblind and if Scott was going to eventually get to that stage of werewolfitude.

And of course, everything had to be ironed. So he went online again, found a life-hack for straightening his clothes without an ironing board, and hung the resulting masterpieces directly in the closet already matched so he couldn’t screw them up in the mornings. Then he took a picture of the closet and texted Lydia to inform her that he had just become a fashionista for the Omega Track. Lydia’s reply: “No, Stiles, you cleaned your closet.”

 

***

 

Part of the whole matchmaking service was a follow-up interview on the dates that were a bust. Natalie had to know what worked and didn’t work out that was preventing the match, if it was a lack of physical attraction or if they were dumb as paint, whatever. She had to know so it didn’t happen again. That Thursday session was the weirdest session with her yet, even weirder when Stiles caught sight of the picture of Lydia on the woman’s desk, reminding him that he was talking to his friend’s mom. He felt like he was at the meat market talking to the butcher, but he wasn’t completely certain all the time if he was the customer or the meat being prepped for the freezer. It made him uncomfortable.

“That’s actually normal, Stiles,” Natalie assured him. “I told you, this is work. It’s easier to... network through friends, in a perfect world. To know what you’re getting into, personally. But even that can’t be called easy, can it? So it’s a bit of a give and take.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed. Still, he gnawed at the end of a pen and tried not to fidget as she went through the page of questions he had filled out answers to. Then Natalie looked over at him, a frown on her face.

“You went to Big Moe’s?” she asked. “Really? You took Mary to a burger joint?”

At the reminder of the girl’s name, Stiles wisely kept his surprise to himself. It probably didn’t show very much commitment to the whole project if he took the girl to a burger joint and had completely forgotten her name. He just shrugged and nodded. “I... was kind of going for the whole friend-vibe. I don’t date. I don’t... get it.”

Natalie arched an eyebrow at that. “Now tell me honestly. Were I to have matched you with my daughter, our lovely, perfect Lydia, where would you have taken her on a date to? The Pizza Pit?”

“Well, no,” said Stiles, stupid.

The woman had a damn point. And that was why, when Friday night rolled around to another date night, Stiles found himself at an actual restaurant, in an actual jacket, and an ironed shirt because Mrs. Malcolm said shirts were supposed to be ironed and his substitute life-hacks didn’t count. (She sent a note home and made his dad buy an iron and ironing board.) Stiles refused to ditch the jeans though. The shoes on his feet were Converse and dirty but he had tried to clean them up a little. The joint wasn’t high-class, but they weren’t getting out of there without at least fifteen bucks a meal and probably two bucks for every water re-fill. Stiles had worried about the cost until Natalie pointed out that Stiles wasn’t expected to pay for his meals when he was out on a date. That was a sobering and murky realization, one of relief for not having to borrow another fifty bucks from his dad, but also confusion because his parents had always taught him manners as a kid. The guy held the door for the girl, helped her with her chair, made her life easier, and picked up the bill. But he wasn’t even the hot girl in the scenario suddenly, he was the broke omega who wasn’t expected to fork out the cash because he wasn’t likely to have it. His date was supposed to provide for him, not the other way around.

_Awesome_.

Except it wasn’t as weird this time around. His dad still lurked a few tables over, but he had actually asked Melissa along this time - _“No, Stiles, it’s just as a favor, not a date,” the man had tried to lie to Stiles’ face,_ \- and Natalie had expressly forbade her daughter drafting Danny into any more spy games on Stiles’ dates. Lydia wasn’t even allowed to _accidentally_ show up within a one mile radius of Stiles on date nights, and since Natalie was her mother and the woman who arranged Stiles’ date nights, Natalie knew how to enforce that edict. That left Stiles at a table with an actual tablecloth on it, and a _freaking centerpiece_ of a little tea-light candle in a frosted glass, eating Italian food when he wasn’t having an actual conversation.

Stiles’ dad had done a bit of a double-take when Harrison sat down at the table with Stiles. That wasn’t something he had mentioned to his dad this time, he kept the name to himself to avoid anything... weird. It seemed to work because the good Sheriff kept to his own lane and only stared for a minute or two before Melissa caught his attention away again. They left Stiles to his date’s company and Stiles soon learned he and Harrison had the same taste in game systems. And movies. And he laughed at Stiles’ jokes and had an evil sarcastic streak. He hadn’t ironed his shirt but he had gone all out otherwise, jacket and slacks and shoes that held a shine; all things Stiles would never have paid attention to _in his life_ until Mrs. Malcolm found out about the whole matchmaking thing through the grapevine. (She kept him after class a whole half an hour on Thursday to lay out the basics of the dating rules she wanted him to be aware of. Which meant now he looked at peoples’ shoes. _Awesome_.) The whole _date_ thing seemed to be going good for the first time ever.

Somewhere around the time their food showed up, Stiles caught himself staring at the guy, his mind wandering places that had absolutely nothing to do with their meal. The date was definitely going good since he wanted to suggest a study date after, because the only possible studying that could happen would have nothing to do with school and everything to do with kissing. It would be a major dating-rule-infraction, which only made it a better idea. He hadn’t quite figured out how to suggest it yet though, given he had chaperones two tables over and probably within hearing range. The pair got quiet as they ate, Stiles lost in his head trying to figure out how to creatively word an invitation that his dad wouldn’t snoop in on and Harrison... well, who knew what he was thinking about but he kept looking up at Stiles to watch him and that didn’t help his brain work any faster.

“Can I say something... a little out-there?” Harrison asked, drawing Stiles’ attention away from his pasta. He nodded, curious, so Harrison continued. “I wasn’t sure how this whole thing would work out, matchmakers and all the details and stuff. I didn’t know how it would all go, with the stuff from school and stuff. But you’re actually pretty awesome. This is nice.”

The announcement was random and surprised him, but it felt like a backhanded compliment. There was something to it that Stiles wasn’t quite catching. He tilted his head, curious. “How’d you know about the school stuff?”

The question seemed to similarly confuse Harrison. He shook his head to dismiss it. “No, I meant the stuff from class. Last week.”

“I kind of wasn’t at school last week,” Stiles said. He was suddenly cautious, the fun of the evening slowly fading off.

“You were in Coach’s class until Scott was sent for you. You didn’t come back with him, nobody knew what had happened,” said Harrison. Stiles stared at the guy across the table from him, the pieces suddenly clicking in his head. It was amazing what a change of clothes could do. Harrison the-guy-in-the-jacket looked very different from Harrison-the-jerk-basketball-player from Coach’s class. He acted different too, with no one around to incite to riot on the omega in the room. Stiles’ appetite and warm fuzzy feelings toward the day both vanished.

“So you’re saying somebody in the room, other than maybe Scott, actually gave a damn that I left?” he asked.

“Well sure. We were all talking before you left.” Harrison nodded. Like he had entirely rewritten the course of recent history and the conversation Stiles remembered had never happened. For a moment Stiles was frozen, not sure at first how to respond in a way that wouldn’t cause problems. He had to remind himself that the minor lynching in his history class that morning a week ago - which Harrison had willfully participated in - hadn’t actually had anything to do with Stiles’ suspension, or being switched to the Omega Track. That was all his own fault, the class trouble was just really bad timing. But Harrison had been one of the voices Stiles now clearly remembered in class.

“Yeah. Now that you mention it, I think we were talking about how making babies is my job,” Stiles said. “As long as the other party owns property, anyway.”

Harrison frowned, confusion obvious, which did nothing to settle Stiles' sudden loss of regard for the guy. "Well, no... We were talking about the uprising in 1824."

"You were talking about _omegas_ ," said Stiles. "Plural, all who can be fit in the box. So I guess we need to clear that up now. I'm in that box but I am not property."

"Well, yeah, that was then-"

"And there hasn't been a successful uprising since 1824. But I got in a fight with two guys last week. So I don't fit in that box that you and everybody in class wants me to. And I'm not going to. Ever."

"We didn't mean anything by it," said Harrison. He shook his head, like he wanted to back out of the conversation. "I was just... Saying sorry it got you in trouble."

"It didn't. I got me in trouble," said Stiles. "By myself. You just reminded me we aren't going to agree on some really big things. Like, really big."

"So? We got along great before I said anything," said Harrison. "I shouldn't have said anything."

"Holy God are you stu- if a _date_ is all you're into then you shouldn't have, because I didn't see you in class that day. And now it's _done_ because I remember what you said," replied Stiles.

"No, that's what's stupid," said Harrison. Stiles shook his head, completely done with the guy now. He did feel stupid but it wasn't because Harrison disagreed with him. He wished he had bothered to pay attention to the faceless mob of his stupid classmates in Coach's class, wished he had recognized the guy for what he was when he walked in the room.

"What, because I'm somehow different than you I'm supposed to ignore the part where you were an absolute ass to me for no reason, other than I'm not the same, and I'm supposed to fawn on you for it now? Things are all better?" he asked, quietly annoyed. "I'm still _different_. Where's your line about me being a breeding machine now? Hasn't changed in a week."

"I told you, it wasn't about you," Harrison replied.

"No, the class - you and everybody else - made it about me, shoved it in _my_ face. _That_ was about me," said Stiles. He stood up then, too angry to trust himself to bother with the guy anymore. "So fine. Thank you for dinner. Have a nice life and stay out of mine."

Stiles walked away then, glaring a little over his shoulder to be sure he was left alone about it, and he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He was calling his dad to tell him he was leaving before he had hit the lobby. He didn't want a scene, he just wanted to be gone already.

It was cold outside so Stiles tucked into his jacket and huddled against the driver's door of his dad's work car. Melissa showed up first, didn't say anything, just patted his shoulder and let him in the sheriff's vehicle with his dad's key set. His dad showed up later, once his and Melissa's interrupted dinner was paid for. They left without incident and Stiles didn't have to even tell anybody what had happened. He also didn't feel bad for sticking Harrison with the bill.

 

***

 

It had been a long day. Jordan caught dinner with some friends and went home earlier than they wanted. Something was bugging him and he couldn’t put his finger on what, but it was messing with his enjoyment of the evening out. So he begged out and sat at home with the TV for awhile. He hadn’t planned to fall asleep but he did, with a Daniel Craig movie on in the background. One second James Bond was saving the girl and the next Jordan was trying to put out a fire with a blanket.

The fire dreams had been happening a lot since he visited his parents at New Years. He still hadn’t told them what had happened the year before and it was apparently eating at him. Jordan could self-analyze with the best of them, his dad had always taught him to check-in with himself and take a step back when things got too hectic that he couldn’t read a situation, and his read on the dreams was guilt. It was kind of a big deal, dying and not actually dying, burning to a crisp and not actually needing medical attention at all. That was the kind of thing a parent had a right to know about their child surviving. Jordan just wasn’t sure how to explain it to them, despite the help he had gotten from the sheriff and from Derek and Scott on the issue. And his guilty conscience had taken to burning his mental-house down in retaliation.

He and the rust-colored blanket attacked the walls and chased the straggling flames along the floor with his boots. He always got in trouble when the fire hit the ceiling because he just couldn’t reach it. Usually the ceiling collapsed then and he woke up choking on imaginary smoke, his eyes watering from the char and soot that he thought had fallen in them. But it was just a dream. Jordan was used to it now. As long as he wasn’t in the car when the dreams started up, he could take the dream in stride because he knew what had caused it.

But this time the dream was different. For the first time in weeks, Jordan managed to get the flames out. Every burning ember cooled and disappeared into black. The windows glowed as sunrise started to eek through and cast light on the walls, sending the charred blackness scattering to reveal the usual walls Jordan was used to seeing when he was awake. It looked like his home, safe and whole and clean. No fire, no smoke, no collapsing roof. It looked suddenly real but Jordan knew he was still asleep, still dreaming. He was too used to the dream to mistake it. All the same, he was drawn to the front door, to see the outside of his home, check the damage.

Except the front door didn’t open to the front yard like it should have. Jordan found himself in a long hallway, dark and narrow, colder than the heat from his formerly burning living room. He walked out into it and his shoes echoed. The hall was empty. Parrish wasn’t sure where he was or why he was there so he started testing doorknobs of the doors spaced out along the hall. Some had square windows with safety glass in them. They looked like they were for storage, small obscure, unused office spaces crammed with furniture. He thought he recognized school desks stacked in the shadows.

The door he had entered from had disappeared and more hallway had replaced it, but at the end of the hallway was a heavy fire door. It slammed and caught Jordan’s attention. He turned to see Stiles Stilinski running through the open doorway at full speed, dangerous considering the squeaky linoleum. It was still a dream so Jordan didn’t say anything, curious to see if he would be noticed. Stiles slowed near him but didn’t acknowledge him, instead looked back to the door. It opened and a group of kids, some in basketball uniforms, chased after him. Stiles went back to running, the brief break gone, and Jordan was concerned. Why hadn’t he woken up yet? He couldn’t help Stiles in a dream and he really wanted to. All the same, he chased after the group, not about to let Stiles out of sight, dream or not.

He watched one of the boys slam into Stiles, keeping him from escaping out the other end of the hall and obviously dazing him. It was all too real and Jordan shoved to the front, trying to interrupt the dream however he could. It wasn’t a fire, it wouldn’t even give the illusion of going out, but just kept going on around him. Stiles didn’t do so well in the fight that played out and Jordan couldn’t help at all. Slowed from the impact against the door, Stiles was pulled into the middle of the hall and surrounded by a basketball team of bullies. Then someone was in his face, hands fisted in his shirt collar to make Stiles look at him.

"You think you're better than everyone, huh?" the kid demanded. "Some stupid omega who knows everything and can just skip tracks. Pretend to be an alpha, screw with everyone so we have to play along. You wanna be both? Best of both worlds and too good for somebody like Hal? Is it because he's not a captain, that it?"

Whatever Stiles said in return wasn’t what the kid wanted to hear but the dream... _glitched_. Jordan couldn’t move, his efforts at interfering didn’t pay off, but suddenly the group was further away, like he blinked and the world tilted. Everyone had slid ten feet away and Stiles was still in the middle of a bad situation, this time on his knees like he had tripped. Someone was in his face there, too. Jordan was disoriented, confused. This wasn’t the dream he was used to. In that dream he could at least put the fires out, even if they still came back. But he couldn’t even touch the scene around him, his hands went through the boys bullying Stiles like they weren’t there. But the hallway looked real. He had touched the door knobs of the rooms, he felt the cold air around them. There was nothing okay with the world his mind was showing him now and he couldn’t do anything about it.

His attention was drawn back to Stiles and the other teen crouched in front of him as the group around them started chanting encouragement. Jordan saw that the kid had changed from being just in Stiles’ face to touching his face and then holding him still, kissing him. That wasn’t right, it wasn’t how Jordan knew omegas should be treated, and it definitely wasn’t how Stiles should be treated, but it was what the boys of the group were hollering for. _Put the ‘mega in his place._ Jordan felt rage and reached out to separate them. His hand burned as he moved, startling him. The skin of his hands glowed orange and he pulled back from touching anyone, too panicked. Fire crawled up his arms from his hands. He waved them and patted at them, flailing back from the dream into wakefulness.

Sitting in his living room, on his couch, he gasped awake. He held up his hands and saw the fading orange that had invaded his dreams. He could smell smoke and saw the faintest hint of charring on his shirt where his arm had been draped in his lap. That wasn’t a dream. He stared at his hands in shock. He had nearly started a fire. That was not the way that dream was supposed to go at all.


	3. Chapter 3

Monday mornings were always awkward. Everyone hated Mondays because they loved Saturday and Sunday. Mondays were _really_ weird when Stiles had to be at school an hour early because he had to ask Lydia to fix his hair in something "appropriate" for Malcolm's class. Maybe he just needed to see the style from the female perspective to understand what he was doing wrong. If nothing else, Lydia wouldn't steer him wrong on it so he would have a better sense of how full of shit his teacher was.

Three days in and Malcolm had sent him home with reminder notes every morning. She watched Stiles like a hawk because he was four years behind the other students in the track, technically six since he hadn't been on the Omega Track in Jr. High, either. That put him behind in everything. It didn't matter that he had been cooking macaroni and cheese for himself since he was seven, because that wasn't enough to sustain a family on. He disagreed heartily with Mrs. Malcolm's disregard for Mac and cheese, but he didn't bother to tell her about it. If the way he brushed his hair in the mornings wasn't good enough then there was no defense for pre-packaged pasta. Stiles was very careful about the battles he would pick in this track.

It was a good thing he showed up early to class that day because he was pretty sure it saved him a lot of public embarrassment. Mrs. Malcolm was there as well and she looked way too glad to see him so Stiles went quickly to his seat and tried not to look like he was as disinterested as he felt in being at school that morning. Mrs. Malcolm sat down in the chair one row ahead and settled in to have a chat.

“I think I’ve figured out how to catch you up with the others,” Mrs. Malcolm reported. There was an entire sheaf of worksheets in his backpack that he was a third of the way through filling out that were supposed to prove Stiles was pretty close to caught up with his peer group on the Omega Track but he didn’t point that out. Instead he arched an eyebrow like he was interested and tried to bite his tongue on half a dozen potential smart-ass comments that wouldn’t help anything.

“We don’t want to send you out into the world unprepared for what you’re walking in to,” Mrs. Malcolm continued. She talked with her hands and sat tall and proper, setting an example that Stiles didn’t feel like following just then. She wasn’t omega and was just a teacher, but somehow she was the advisor to the track. She helped steer her students’ academic careers, what they were allowed of them, anyway. She had a lot of authority and say in what the Track wanted or didn’t want.

“I had a pretty good handle on the world over on the Alpha Track,” Stiles told her. “I mean, it wasn’t this stuff but it was the real world and I was out in it.”

“The problem is that you’re not an alpha, Mr. Stilinski. It isn’t healthy, pretending to be one, and you shouldn’t have to. You’re at a huge disadvantage there, trying to ignore the differences-”

“I wasn’t ignoring it, I just figured it didn’t matter. That’s how me and my dad always saw it. It doesn’t matter because I want to do my own thing,” said Stiles. His own thing didn’t include a family for quite a while when somehow the school could get all involved in his life just for the crime of making out at a party.

“But the opportunities aren’t there for your own thing,” Mrs. Malcolm said. “The syndrome itself prepares you for a certain lifestyle and the opportunities there are much different than a student struggling on the Alpha Track.”

“I wasn’t struggling,” said Stiles.

“You were unprepared for the situations you found yourself in on that track if you were caught on cell phone video making out with someone else’s boyfriend. That kind of behavior is dangerous,” said Malcolm. Stiles tapped his fingers on the desk and tried not to clench his jaw.

“Okay, first, the someone else whose boyfriend I was making out with was totally on board with the whole thing and she’s one of my friends,” said Stiles. “And second? I’ve gotten this lecture like ten times over the last week from every teacher and the principal and the superintendent, so I think I get it-”

“It’s not a lecture, we just got a bit sidetracked,” Mrs. Malcolm said, shaking her head. “The point is, there’s a lot of information coming at you in the next few months, from teachers, from textbooks. You have a fraction of the opportunity these other students have had to get the benefit of experience on some of the lessons. And frankly, there’s a lot of material covered in prior years that you don’t have access to, but I’ve noticed you don’t ask a lot of questions. I’m afraid you’ll miss out on valuable information in the time-crunch we’re working with.”

“I’ve done okay so far,” Stiles pointed out.

“ _Okay_ won’t be enough to really get you started. You need to be better than _okay_ before you leave this school, and we can hold you back if you need the extra time,” said Mrs. Malcolm. The woman didn’t seem to view what she said as a threat but, all the same, Stiles nearly choked on it.

“I can’t be held back for this,” he said quickly.

“Exactly, we don’t want to risk that,” said Mrs. Malcolm. She smiled like she was glad he had finally caught on. “That’s why I think I’m going to have one of the other seniors tutor you. You can be their shadow. That way, for every class, you’ll have someone who can show you how it’s done, someone you can ask questions of, without having to ask in front of everyone. I’ve noticed you get nervous in class, talking to people. Maybe one or two student-teachers will make things easier for you.”

Her brilliant plan was to have Stiles follow around a student who was better at the whole Omega-thing to start off with. Someone to show him the light, a perfect example for him to carbon-copy pieces of personality and appearance from. The plan had the slight drawback of ignoring the part where Stiles disagreed too much in class discussions, so nobody would talk to him by the end of the second day. It wasn’t that he was nervous about talking to people, it was that he didn’t say anything because he already knew people would get mad at him if he did. They were on the start of day four - Stiles was keeping count - and it wasn’t looking to get any better if the teacher was going to _assign_ him a study-buddy.

But Stiles was supposed to pick his battles on the Omega-thing. All he had to do was make it to graduation. He drummed his fingers lightly on his desk, tapped his foot to the count of ten, then forced a smile and nod. “Yeah. Great idea.”

 

***

 

The study-buddy idea didn’t take very well, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Stiles did ask his questions, quietly, at the back of the class, like he was told he was supposed to. He wasn’t so good at keeping the sarcasm out. It leaked into comments or into his tone at the things that went exactly against his view on life, and there was a lot that they were teaching that he disagreed with, but he didn't always want to say anything to the class. It wasn't smart to tell fifteen students that their teacher was wrong. Much safer if only one student heard about it, but that didn't mean it was appreciated.

Health class was particularly hard for Stiles to handle. He stared at their textbook and then at the PowerPoint screen projected on the board.

"Did they even research this stuff or just make it up as they wrote the book?" Stiles wondered. He wasn't talking to anyone in particular, but his Senior Shadow sat close enough to hear. Shawn leaned into the aisle between their desks.

"Yes, they researched this," Shawn said, patient, as was apparently his usual. That was probably why Mrs. Malcolm had picked that particular shadow. "This is actually remedial, Stilinski. Like, freshman level stuff that they drag out every so often for pop-quiz points."

Stilinski was as close as Stiles could get Shawn to agreeing to call him by his first name. Stiles accepted the little victories. He pointed at a line in the book.

"Five minutes on the internet and I can get you twenty scholarly sources that disprove this," he said, still keeping his voice down.

Shawn shrugged it off. "And that's the internet. You can't believe everything you see on the internet. The textbook has citations, too. They researched-"

"But they're still wrong," said Stiles.

"No they're not," said Shawn. Stiles arched one judgmental eyebrow at him.

"Are you telling me, honestly, that you have ever lost all rational control and gone off the rails because somebody looked at you funny during your time of the month? You attack trees or anything that moves because they smell good?"

"That's not what it says and you know it, stop being stupid," said Shawn.

"It says I should be on constant vigilance mode because otherwise I will _succumb to primal urges_ and maul the first available alpha during heat," said Stiles. He was still paraphrasing the lesson but not very drastically. "They are seriously telling us to isolate ourselves because it's safer."

"For some people, maybe it is-"

"I have never had to do that. I have always been around people - dangerous people sometimes, even - and never once have I lost cognitive function and the ability to defend myself because of how somebody _smells_ ," said Stiles.

"Then maybe you haven't met the right person. My fiancé can get me pretty close," said Shawn. Stiles rolled his eyes.

"That's because you know her and you have a relationship with her and you want that, with her. Person-specific, not omega-hazard-zone," he said. "Unless you think it's possible you don't do the same thing to her, and that would also be wrong, because people who carry omega genetics aren't the only ones who fall in love. Love screws with people. The omega thing just makes me tired and cranky."

"Yeah, I see that," said Shawn. "But the textbook isn't about you. Your experience doesn't make it science."

Stiles had no argument to that and he sat back in his chair and scowled at the lying book. It was like talking to a brick wall, mostly because Shawn was backed up by the textbook, by the staunch warnings their health teacher droned on about, and society's general assumption that an omega in heat was a danger to themselves and their purity. It wasn't the only class lesson that Stiles had run into that wall. It was just the newest example. Shawn would let him argue, and they would go quietly back and forth in the back of the class so they didn't interrupt the rest of the students, but it always got down to that.

Stiles versus the textbook.

It sucked. It made him feel like an idiot but at the same time, he lost a little faith in humanity as a whole for spreading and believing lies like that, turning myth and misconception into truth. Worse was that doubt that made him wonder if he really was wrong. Maybe the myths were right, like the textbook said. If they were, how _broken_ was he for not fitting the mold? Stiles refused though. There was nothing wrong with him, otherwise there were a few werewolf packs that would have taken him out already because instinct demanded survival of the fittest. If he could run with wolves then he was fine. It was the rest of the world that had it wrong.

That didn't make it science, just popular, and Stiles was stuck in the Omega Track running into the same problem he always had in the Alpha Track. Everyone thought he was crazy, discounted his ideas, because he didn't fit in. That was an all uphill battle. It was stressful. But Stiles had a lot of practice playing the crackpot as an omega on the Alpha Track.

After class, Stiles and Shawn were called to the front of the room as the others all left for their next class.

"I noticed you two arguing back there," the Omega Track health teacher, Mr. Phillips, said. "Is there something I can clear up?"

"No. You're just making things more confused," Stiles said, somewhere between honest and annoyed. "The stuff we covered today isn't what I was taught."

The teacher, predictably, was not impressed by the challenge. "Really? You've been on the Alpha Track. So who taught you?"

"My doctors? My friend's mom? I did my own research," said Stiles.

"I think it's safe to say the textbook was written by people who did more research than you," said Mr. Phillips. He sat behind his desk and looked annoyed by the challenge. Shawn looked like he wanted to maybe personally murder his assigned shadow. Stiles shook his head and pulled out his phone.

"The people who wrote the textbook and did the research aren't omegas. They're not even married to omegas. Their other textbooks were on historical subjects, not science or omegas either one," said Stiles. He held the phone up to show the screen and the biography section of the webpage of the textbook’s authors. "This is my life, okay? I vet my sources. I wanna be healthy because I live this stuff. These people don't. You don't even have to because it's just your job."

That was apparently the wrong track to take because Mr. Phillips turned slightly red while Shawn went three shades paler and caught Stiles' arm to start coaching him out of the room. "Sorry, Mr. Phillips but Mr. Johnson'll give us detention if we're late."

It was best they make their hasty exit before Phillips snapped the vein in his forehead that looked dangerously close to bursting. Stiles followed after Shawn but they weren't fast enough.

"I'll see you two in the library after school then," Phillips called after them. Shawn shoved Stiles into the hallway a little rougher than necessary just to start them walking three rooms down and across the hall.

"What the hell was that?" Shawn demanded. Stiles blinked at him, grinned a little. He didn't know Shawn swore. It wasn't a polite thing to do and “No Swearing” was the third rule Mrs. Malcolm had written on the big poster of the track expectations in her classroom. Then he sobered and waved dismissively back at Phillips' classroom.

"That was his fault. Malcolm gave us permission to talk this stuff out and he was just butting in," he said.

"Mrs. Malcolm meant for you to ask questions and for me to answer what I could to help you catch up with everybody else," said Shawn. "She didn't give you carte blanche on anarchy."

“That’s not anarchy, the guy said I could ask questions,” said Stiles. That was a very fine line to tread and Shawn wasn’t in the mood to let him get away with it.

“You just got me detention. For the first time in my _life_ ,” the kid said, obviously agitated about it. Stiles balked and then let out a laugh.

“Live a little then. It’s super exciting,” he said. Shawn shoved at him again.

“It’s not actually funny. You were a jerk and I didn’t sign up for this shit,” said Shawn. Stiles kept count of the swearing fits and held up a hand to show the score. Shawn rolled his eyes and stopped him from walking into their next class. “I mean it. Don’t do that again. Write this stuff down or something if you have to. Just don’t talk to me about it, and don’t piss off the teachers with it.”

“But they are factually wrong, man,” said Stiles. “That’s not important to you?”

“You’re the only one saying they’re wrong and you’re new,” Shawn replied.

“Yeah, new to the track but not to everything else,” said Stiles. “I didn’t just present, Shawn. Maybe I don’t know how to conform very well but I at least know what’s real and what’s myth.”

The hall had emptied out as students disappeared into their classrooms. Shawn looked around and motioned for Stiles to keep his voice down.

“The stuff you’re calling lies is the stuff I’ve been learning since I was twelve, okay? That’s what I know. I’m not sick either. I know what I need to know, how to stay healthy and how to stay out of trouble, which is something you haven’t learned,” said Shawn. “You can’t even stay out of trouble in the Omega Track. I don’t even know how you survived the Alpha Track.”

“By being myself?” said Stiles. “All these rules, they’re BS. Even you know it’s BS. You swear when you get mad. You aren’t perfect. I bet you break ten rules a day but you’ve just gotten real good at making sure Malcolm’s not around when you do.”

Shawn looked about ready to mentally implode so Stiles stopped pressing the point. The kid just shook his head, looked like he gave up. "You're not them, Stiles. There's nothing wrong with the rules and the... the manners and everything else. It’s there to show us what we can do. And what we can do is actually more than _them_ , we’re still just as... important or whatever you’re after. So I don't get why you keep trying to be them."

“I’m not trying to be an alpha-” Stiles cut himself off and decided to admit defeat on this one. Maybe he was somebody’s shadow and he was supposed to ask questions, learn all the things he needed to know, but there was no way Shawn was ever going to listen to him to understand. "Fine, you have the answers, you fix it. You figure out how to make all of this stuff somehow make sense. Because right now, everything I’ve seen is fake."

"That's not my job. You have to know this stuff," said Shawn. “And that means _you_ have to make it make sense. I can’t think for you. I can answer questions, but that means you have to ask them first. Telling me they’re all wrong is not a question I can answer. And I don’t want to get in trouble just for trying to help you.”

Stiles rolled his eyes at the guy’s priorities in life. “And what do I do if they’re wrong?”

“Keep it to yourself. Write them an essay about it. I can't help you with that,” said Shawn. And the guy had a point.

The next class was home-accounting. Shawn reluctantly held the door open as a hint and waited for Stiles to go sit down and shut up. He was supposed to be Shawn’s shadow; shadows were seen but not heard. That wasn’t something Stiles was any good at so he didn’t bother to make any promises.


	4. Chapter 4

After a week of the new track, Stiles was having problems. Drastic problems that related directly to his sanity. He was held back after three classes that week - which made him late to three other classes, in a nasty snow-ball effect - and lectured at about his behavior in class. He wasn’t getting it, he wasn’t fitting in, he wasn’t making friends (but on the plus side to that, random strangers had stopped hugging him to introduce themselves in classes.) and he already knew a lot of the things the teachers were trying to instruct the classes on. He knew how to cook, he knew how to keep track of how much money he spent (and he knew how to frivolously spend it and then take back the crazy things, like that one time he bought a big screen TV...) He knew CPR but no, he never wanted to have to perform CPR on a baby, and his child-care class was the most absolutely terrifying thing in his life, despite occasionally dealing with actual monsters and murderers.

In short, Stiles hated school and anything maybe-possibly-related to the general geographical location of Beacon Hills High.

His dad picked him up from school - because he was still grounded from the Jeep after the San Francisco trip - and then he had to sit at the station and work on homework. But the homework was one textbook on home accounting, and a recipe book that he was supposed to memorize from - one recipe a night - and replicate at home. And a never-ending stream of worksheets and emailed notes from teachers. It was all pointless, redundant reminders that he wasn’t living his life right. At least, not right according to the school.

He was a problem-student, he was behind the rest of his classmates, and he still had a hard time ignoring the crap his teachers rambled about. He wasn't learning. He spent most of his time just barely not rioting. That made him Ms. Malcolm's favorite student, a new pet-project. Even with the Omega Track, where all the students were passive and believed whatever they were told, being the teacher's pet project was a mock-worthy offense. Words still could fly around and cause fights in the halls but the omega students weren't as likely to resort to punching somebody. That suited Stiles fine; he was better in an argument than a fight anyway. Shawn and Stiles had come to a grudging acceptance of each other, both equally convinced the other was missing a few screws but otherwise an alright guy. That meant that Shawn had twice in one day had to play peacekeeper before Stiles could cause any damage in the spats between classes, and the cattle-run of students cleared out and they made it to class. He stopped correcting Stiles though, would even defend him sometimes, and Stiles' only potential friend in the track was his Senior Shadow-slash-babysitter-spy. They didn't have much common ground though and it was hard to trust the guy since Shawn had to report to Malcolm about him every day.

Scott was generally busy after school so Stiles didn't complain about hanging out in his dad's office at the station, or the break-room when there were donuts to be guarded. He had his own desk in the corner and he snooped on his dad's phone calls and peeked at the files lying around. Habit. He had no intention of dropping it, either.

That Tuesday, around four pm, Stiles was actually looking at his homework book though, because accounting could sometimes be a bitch he was learning. His dad got a phone call and Stiles looked back at him to silently announce his intent to eavesdrop. Normally his dad just rolled his eyes or waved him off. This time an eyebrow arched up and he looked back at Stiles, met his eyes.

"Hello, Mrs. Malcolm. What can I do for you?"

Stiles eased out of his chair, not letting it swivel enough to even squeak, and crossed the room to hit the speaker button on his dad's desk phone.

"-keep you up to date on how Stiles is doing in class," Malcolm was saying as the phone tuned in. Stiles glared at the receiver like he could light it on fire. His dad pointed him to the chair so he wasn't lurking over his shoulder.

"I've heard a few things," his dad said.

"Did he tell you he got himself and another student detention yesterday?"

"Yeah, found that out when I had to sit in the parking lot for a half an hour because I'm picking him up from school this week. I'd rather it didn't happen again," the sheriff said, and it wasn't in the Dad-voice. He used the Sheriff-voice; Stiles wasn't the one in trouble for that and he preened a little.

"Certainly. I've assigned him a partner for all of his classes, one of my best students. The goal is to keep him on-task, give him someone he can ask his questions of quietly as I've noticed he doesn't talk much in class."

Stiles rolled his eyes as his dad glanced over at him in obvious suspicion. "That's certainly not normal for him," said his dad.

"Really? How odd. Shawn said something similar this afternoon," said Malcolm.

"Stiles has a voice," his dad told her. "He knows how to use it. And generally when."

"I'll have to talk to him in class then, try to get him to speak up more," she said.

"Just give him a few weeks to get the change of pace down. From what he's said, the new track is nothing like what he's used to."

"I imagine not. How has he been adjusting at home? You are aware there is homework..."

"Yeah. The house has never been so clean," said Stiles' dad. The teenager grinned at the blatant lie. There was the tiniest pang of guilt and he set a mental note to actually make an effort to clean the kitchen at some point since he had been protesting doing so for two weeks. If his dad was going to cover for him on it, he might as well get back to the whole team-work scheme on home-care and pull his own weight again.

"Good to hear. And has he been at least attempting to cook meals? It's an important part of the curriculum and we can't always teach it in class as far as we would like. They need the practice at home," said Malcolm. Stiles scowled and set his shoulders, backed off again.

"Stiles has been cooking since before his mom died, Mrs. Malcolm. I've got no concerns on that front," his dad said.

"But the goal is not to stay at the standard he knows, Sheriff Stilinski. The goal is to challenge him, push him. He has a lot of ground to cover and not very much time to do it in," the teacher said. "If he can't catch up, keep his grades up, he could be held back to be sure the fundamentals are there and the basic nutrition is the biggest thing-"

"Right. All I can tell you there is that I'm satisfied with his progress in that department. I don't want him held back. The boy tries," said his dad.

"Trying doesn't count," said Mrs. Malcolm. "The goal is a successful transition out of high school. He likely won't be accepted into college, at least not until he's married. There's a lot at play here, Sheriff-"

"I understand. We're trying to get him through it."

"He's so far unattached and I have no idea how the counselors think they can get him successfully matched. Lord help you both if he falls pregnant before he better understands what he's up against. Shawn says he's a mess in health class, there's so much work to be done," said Mrs. Malcolm. Stiles scoffed. His dad seemed amused enough by the observation.

"I can't exactly argue with that assumption," he said. Stiles huffed at him and stayed out of it. He listened shamelessly as his dad danced around Malcolm's questions. He outright lied a few more times. But the teacher seemed satisfied and didn't seem to notice. The phone call ended on a promise to keep him informed.

"Is that going to be a regular thing?" his dad asked.

Stiles shook his head; he certainly didn't know. "If it does, keep telling her I'm awesome at home."

"Maybe we should work on the whole moral of the story being how you go forth and _be_ awesome and I don't have to _lie_ about the details," suggested his dad.

"Yeah, whatever," said Stiles. "I am doing fine. Just gotta sort out how it all works."

His dad nodded. Things fell quiet, like his dad had more to say, but he was notoriously bad at finding words. Stiles stood up to go back to his desk across the room. His dad coughed, a clear hint.

"Ya know, son, we should probably have a chat..."

After the topic of conversation from the phone call, there was no way Stiles would be allowed to sneak off _without_ the chat. Then he saw his dad had turned a little pink. Stiles balked, stared slack jawed at his dad. He wasn't seriously going there now...

"Okay, seriously? Dad," said Stiles, cautious but still surprised. "The internet is for porn and Wikipedia. I know where babies come from."

His dad's jaw clicked shut and his ears went pink. "Right... Porn..."

"Always awesome." Stiles was fairly certain it was time to go raid the break-room and get a breather from the sudden onset of awkward. His dad almost let him leave but he spoke up at the last moment, pointing a finger and poking the desk.

"I don't want grandkids til after you graduate."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Pretty sure that's not a problem."

The sheriff nodded. "Glad we had this talk."

Stiles was a bright red as he ducked out of the office.

 

***

 

The problem with Stiles' new life was that he was bored. He knew this stuff he was supposed to be learning. He could cook well enough just throwing things in a pan or something, his dad was perfectly fine and healthy despite his decrepit age. Stiles took a certain amount of pride in the fact that his dad was a sheriff and had managed to survive without his wife, when statistics said husbands and wives often died within a few years of each other. Maybe Stiles sucked at staying out of trouble, but he could fake it in the kitchen pretty well and took high offense to the school thinking he needed taught how to cook. Among other things he already knew. It wasn’t actually homework, it was just random things assigned only to make him angry.

It probably wasn’t _actually_ only assigned to make him angry. But it made him angry. And frustrated. And he really wanted to kill things. It all should have been easy but every time he thought he had it figured out, there was some new thing he had done wrong. The only part of the scenario that he took personally was that he hadn’t figured out the whole Omega Track within the first week, because how could stuff he already knew how to do be harder than AP Trig?

Not even Derek would let him kill things though, so Stiles figured if the _werewolf_ said he was getting a little too angry then he probably was. But it started invading his brainspace and he couldn’t really sleep. He lived on peanut butter and ramen out of protest the homework assignments of cooking the family meal every night. He didn’t even bother worrying about his rabbit-food agreement with his dad, since he now knew his dad still snuck donuts in at the station anyway.

Wednesday, however, he only had a half day at school, so he got to horde the donuts again. The entire track cut off at noon every Wednesday on the assumption that the kids would have home-based things to catch up on, or new things they had learned that they could try at home with the free time. It was like a homeroom period that lasted all afternoon and was literally at home. Except for the second Wednesday in a row Stiles was at the sheriff’s station where he ate half a box of donuts and then hid the remainder in the refrigerator to keep his dad out of them. Then he wandered into his dad’s office, feeling twitchy about staying in the break-room by himself. He wasn’t expecting to find Derek had already taken Stiles’ usual spot on the couch. He had a guest tag on a clip from his shirt and Stiles flicked at it as he sat down beside him.

“You guys are just giving these away now?” Stiles said. Derek mimicked him but instead flicked him in the ear for it.

“Settle down, jeeze. Don’t make me regret this,” his dad said. That was certainly an odd way for his dad to start a conversation involving Derek Hale, Werewolf Extraordinaire, so Stiles settled down as requested.

“What?” he asked. Derek shrugged and pulled the face that pretended not to know anything, but Derek was a shitty liar, too, Stiles had learned. “What? You did something- what did you-”

“No, I did something,” interrupted his dad. He sat behind the desk and nodded at Derek. “He just agreed to help me with it.”

Like that wasn’t ominous. Stiles narrowed his eyes at them. “Okay, so what?”

“ _So_ I got you into spring semester at Beacon Community,” his dad said. “It’s only two classes but it’s the best I could talk them in to.”

Stiles stared at him, not entirely certain he had really heard what he thought he’d heard. “Wait. You what?”

His dad nodded. “This thing with the high school is stupid. In the first place, I’ve seen you handle alpha werewolves better than you’re handling the switch in tracks-”

“An Omega should never pretend to be an Alpha,” said Stiles, sarcasm barely kept in check as he repeated one of the favorite lines he had heard so many times from his teachers and classmates over the week. “So naturally I’m all screwed up now and it’s your fault for signing the waiver letting me pretend to be an alpha, Dad. You should have known _better_.”

The sheriff nodded, not mustering up the contempt that Stiles had, and waved it off. “Which is why I’m sending you to the community college with the alphas again because you’re not allowed to drop the Omega Track.”

“They let me in?” Stiles asked. “This isn’t a joke or something?”

“Not a joke. You’re in,” said his dad. Stiles looked over when Derek elbowed him in the arm, passing him a piece of paper. Behind the desk, his dad pointed at it. “You don’t get to keep that though. That’s his.”

Looking the paper over, Stiles saw a class listing, with his name clearly at the top of the page. He frowned at it, hardly noting that he was now enrolled in Spanish and an online history class. “Why’s Derek need a copy of my schedule?”

“He’s agreed to be your escort for school,” said the sheriff. Stiles didn’t like that at all and shook his head.

“Nope. No way. I don’t want anybody screwing with their lives because I want to go school. It’s only, like, an hour a day. I can do that on my own,” he said.

“Yeah, you can, but the school isn’t comfortable with letting you,” said his dad. Stiles wanted to argue but his dad shut him down. “Look, Stiles. I get it. But the school’s right on this one. Whatever idiot thought it was funny to post a video of you and Jackson made you a hot topic. I saw it, that thing has been seen hundreds of times now, and this is a small community, alright? They might as well have tattooed _Omega_ on your forehead. You’re underaged, you’re not married, you couldn’t be a bigger risk to them for that alone. Okay? You follow?”

“No?” And Stiles didn’t follow. His brain was a little blocked on the brief thought that somewhere in the last two weeks his dad might have watched the video, wherever it had been posted. “I didn’t do anything. The internet is full of videos of people doing stupid things-”

“Yeah, but this one was of my kid, doing stupid things,” said the sheriff. “And you couldn’t have painted a bigger target on yourself if you tried. At the high school you’re fine because you know the territory, you know who belongs there, but you don’t at the college. The school won’t take that risk and I won’t let you try it.”

That wasn't something Stiles had considered before. He stared at the class schedule, eyes unfocused as he tried to review two weeks of his life for danger signs because his paranoia levels amped up.

"It'll go away," Derek pointed out. "This is only temporary. But a couple hours out of my life every day to brush up on my Spanish is preferable to taking chances."

"It's just a precaution," the sheriff agreed. "But it will get your brain back into academics instead of making sure your socks match every morning."

"Seriously? I fail the class if Malcolm sees one blue and one black or something, you aren't kidding and you don't even know it," muttered Stiles.

"Okay. Fine. You can still stress out about the socks. But I thought you might want to broaden your horizons at least a little."

Stiles looked over at Derek, the schedule flapping in his hands. "You mean it? You're okay with this? Helping?"

Derek tugged the paper carefully out of his hand. "There's a risk here. You need somebody to watch your back, and it's not like I really have a whole lot going on to have to work around."

"Peter," Stiles pointed out. The elder Hale had been let out of Eichen only months earlier and the local DA had literally nothing to charge him with. Which made him Derek's responsibility to keep in line. Derek shook his head.

"Peter's on a leash but it's not that short," he said. He waved the paper again briefly before folding it up. "I can handle this schedule."

"Yeah, but he's your family. If he screws up-"

"Peter is family. You’re not. And you’re the one at risk," said Derek. He looked at Stiles, level and serious, not to be argued with on it. "Pack wins."

And Stiles could accept that. Because he knew that was still true, anyway.

 

***

 

It was harder making friends after the whole burning-to-death thing. Jordan didn’t have any answers to where he fit in the world, since he wasn’t a werewolf, and he wasn’t what he was just a few years earlier. He had seen war, been in a few scrapes, but he had never walked out of fire without burning. He wasn’t natural, no matter how many times the sheriff’s young friends tried to tell him he was. He had spent too much time around Derek, and Chris Argent too, heard too much about their weird world. Somehow he fit in with their world more than with the sheriff’s, but neither of them knew how. Chris mostly left Jordan alone, but he answered the phone if Jordan called with a question about something that showed up in a case file or out on the streets. But Derek had become a friend, weird as the Hales were. He made a good tour guide. Jordan hadn’t jumped in with both feet yet, but he was _something_ so Derek was helping him test the waters.

What Derek had for friends were all teenagers, so Jordan went out with him occasionally to the bars, just to remind the both of them that they were adults and capable of grown-up conversations that had nothing to do with the world of the weird. It was a very human thing to do, which amused Jordan at first when they started it up because, well, he had seen Derek turn into a wolf before but he had yet to see the man get drunk. Sometimes Derek invited along someone from one of the other “packs” in the area and sometimes Jordan invited Derek along with him to nights out with his few friends who weren’t police officers (Derek had been arrested a few too many times to be welcome in those circles.)

Tonight though it was just Jordan and Derek, catching up a little because Derek had kept himself busy. They sat at a pub, mostly just because they were there, neither one of them drinking anything harder than a soda. That was probably a good thing because Parrish’s attention had been thoroughly caught by something and he couldn’t leave it alone as it was.

“Wait. I’m not sure I’m following...” said Jordan. “The sheriff asked you to handle transportation for Stiles to get to classes at the college?”

Derek shook his head. “Not just transportation. He got him cleared to take the classes with an escort. No escort, no class. The instructor won’t let him in without one.”

“If it’s that dangerous then why is he letting Stiles go to the college level? He’s not safe where he’s at, the college just seems like a bad idea.” Jordan frowned at his drink, stuck in a memory of a dream that made letting Stiles attend college such a bad idea. It was just a dream, just a gut-feeling, but he didn’t like it.

“He’s going to college because that’s what the kid wants to do,” said Derek. “The high school is messing him up.”

“But he’s not safe. It’s not worth it,” said Jordan.

“That’s why his dad asked me to go along. I’ve got the schedule for it. He just needs somebody to watch his back,” said Derek, shrugging it off. “If there’s anything him and I have got down, it’s that we can watch each other’s back. And I get to brush up on a semester of Spanish.”

“Right. You’ve got the pack thing,” said Jordan. He didn’t understand it fully and something that felt almost like jealousy crept up on him.

“He’s the only pack I’ve got left, yeah,” said Derek, a little quieter. “There's no alpha anymore, maybe. The others... left. He stayed. So it’s him and me, and Lydia’s probably the closest thing we’ll get to an alpha. Me and Stiles though, we’ve got the omega market cornered.”

Derek seemed to be making light of it, but he wasn’t mocking Stiles. Jordan opened his mouth to say something, trying to clarify, but Derek’s cell phone chirped and he swore under his breath at it as he saw the ID.

“What?” Jordan asked, cautious.

“Peter. He’s looking for me.” And Parrish realized the night was more or less over when Derek answered the call. He had to obviously, his uncle was a psychopath who needed a keeper which had fallen to Derek the day the guy was let out of Eichen. But Jordan wasn’t exactly looking forward to sharing a table with him. And he definitely invited himself to their evening. Derek wasn’t happy about it either but there wasn’t much to be done about it. Someone had to keep an eye on Peter and it might as well be them. Jordan waved it off and tried to steer it back to what they had been discussing before the interruption.

“You’re not an omega like Stiles though,” Jordan said. “Right?”

“Nope,” said Derek with a nod. He looked around the room in a brief hint and then shrugged. “But there are different definitions of the word. In... some circles, omegas are just alone. Easy prey for hunters. No pack.”

The answer was heavily coded and Jordan knew he was talking about the werewolf side of things. Which made sense, in a way. Werewolves could talk about their different groups in public without being looked at twice if they used the same terminology as the rest of the world; alphas and omegas were already familiar to everyone.

“I’m just used to the one,” said Parrish, a finger held up for illustration of the single definition he worked from. “It’s a family thing. Skipped me entirely.”

“Considering you’re a cop, that’s probably a good thing,” said Derek. “You wouldn’t have been allowed as an omega. That’s what the sheriff’s running in to with Stiles now.”

Jordan shook his head. “But that’s not right. My dad did a lot. He’s had just as much influence on people’s lives-”

“Probably most indirectly, through you,” Derek pointed out. “Without him, there would be no you. Without you, the lives you saved would have been lost. Like that.”

The thought didn’t sit well. “No, my dad’s done stuff,” Jordan said. He probably could have come up with a few proofs but they were interrupted then by someone pulling out a chair at their table and sitting down. Again Peter Hale made his unwelcome presence known with a smile.

“Well if family is the theme of the evening, I’ve shown up just in time,” the man said. Derek scoffed quietly and shook his head. Peter ignored him, his attention instead on Jordan. “What’s this about your dad?”

“He’s not just a house-husband, was my point,” said Jordan, glancing at Derek as though to finish the conversation and move things along to the next subject.

“That’s an odd topic. I take it omegas were being discussed, our dear Stiles?” Peter asked.

“Nope,” said Derek, probably a little too quick. “We were talking about his dad.”

Even Jordan could tell that was a lie but the message was clear; no talking about Stiles around Peter. That didn’t make Jordan feel any better about Peter Hale’s existence outside the walls of a prison but he rolled with it. “My father’s an omega, yes. And I have a different view on what they’re capable of than some people probably because of that.”

Peter leaned back, rather directly giving Jordan the once-over, like he was reassessing some judgement or another. “Did he carry you?”

Jordan hadn’t expected that. He blinked, surprised. “What of it?”

“No reason. It’s just you’re apparently defensive of the whole omega-thing. You aren’t one, I assume, chaos factor of omega presentation in a bloodline and all, so simple curiosity,” said Peter. “Although I suppose there’s the two-dads explanation there too, so that doesn’t really narrow anything down.”

“My mom and dad are fine, still married, and I’m just... the only one here with an omega in the family I think, so different perspectives,” said Jordan.

“Somewhat,” allowed Derek but he still tried to get Peter’s attention back. “I thought you had counseling tonight?”

Peter waved him off. “I did. It got out early so I was in the neighborhood.” He looked to Jordan again. “So how does that work? The whole mom thing? If your dad did the work in the child-rearing-”

Derek interrupted. “Okay, Peter. Remember the part where you’re not supposed to be an asshole-”

“I’m not, I’m curious,” returned Peter. “The man has a story, I just wanted to hear it since I walked into the middle of it.”

Derek looked over at Jordan in obvious apology, like he wasn’t sure what to do with this situation either. Derek didn’t have many friends in large part because of his uncle so it wasn’t like Jordan didn’t already know the danger; the guy could only do so much to protect people from his intrusive family. They were both stuck with it now. The hazards of association with the Hales. Jordan shrugged it off.

“There was a genetic donor involved. My mom carried my brothers, so they shared the child-rearing, all the way through,” said Jordan.

“Really?” asked Peter.

“Really,” said Jordan. “Is that any more interesting than how your parents met?”

“Not really,” said Derek. Another hint Peter blatantly ignored.

“But I’ve got a great story about a night in San Francisco,” said Peter. Jordan really didn’t want to hear about it and was saved by the ringing of his own cell phone then. It happened to be his boss, with an important work-related-issue. That was the best timing the sheriff had ever had and Jordan excused himself to go deal with deputy-things. He was hardly gone before Derek was glaring at Peter and Peter was offering up yet another half-hearted excuse for his lack of social-skills.

The call was a small matter of paperwork that the sheriff didn’t need him to come in for but Jordan took the excuse it offered and didn’t go back in the bar since he had already said good night. Derek was an alright guy as far as Jordan had known him, but the man’s uncle... No, Peter Hale was another story altogether.


	5. Chapter 5

Since he had actual good news for once, in two weeks of bad news after bad news, Stiles rushed after his class on Thursday to catch Scott and the others on their lunch.

Scott usually only wanted to know what the omega track was like; it wasn’t like he was being rude, he just wanted to know, he was curious because it was different. He was trying to do things the way they had always done things. But he didn’t get that it wasn’t the same. Before, they had different classes sometimes, but they were still the same subject. They could trade notes. Stiles could help fix his papers. Now... Now the only class stuff Stiles could tell Scott about was the stuff from Scott's English class because Stiles had already read those books when he was bored. It just wasn’t worth it sometimes. But the college classes would give them shared subjects again even if it wasn't the same classes. Stiles would take what he could get.

He found the McCall pack in their usual spot. Kira and Isaac were there this time and that meant Allison had joined them, hip to hip with Isaac. It made Stiles hesitate to approach.

Allison's family didn't like him any at all. She had been fine with him until a thoughtless, innocent comment from Scott left her avoiding him. Chris tolerated the werewolf boyfriends better than he tolerated Stiles. The werewolves were supernatural, they were magic in motion and easy to hate. But from what Stiles had pieced together, the Argents and other hunters didn't like omegas because they didn't have that excuse. Omegas were one hundred percent, bona fide human and were actually the opposite of a threat; monsters took life but omegas were generally associated with giving it. They were always either parents or some kind of healer. Plus there were just too many omegas to fight that war in any given county. So hunters were in a strange place with the omegas because they were against everything the hunters stood for, but they didn't _do anything_ to be able to justify killing the freakshows. If an omega was a second class citizen to every other human, they were a third-rate waste of space to hunters. The experience with the Nogitsune a year earlier hadn't helped anything at all; Allison had nearly died and the _thing_ responsible for that had worn Stiles' face to do it. He didn't really expect her to get over that since he really hadn't figured out to do that himself yet. It made things weird for Stiles.

But he was there for Scott, not Allison. Stiles climbed onto the bench beside Malia again, right under Scott's nose.

"Hey," he greeted around the table as he pulled out his lunch. Malia patted him on the head but kept to her food. On her right, Lydia waved but was otherwise chatting across the table with Allison. Liam looked at Stiles a bit nervously but he at least acknowledged him. It was all weird. He tried to shove it back and pounced on his good news.

"Dad got me into school! I'm taking college classes next week!" The announcement actually made Scott's smile fade off. Stiles frowned, confused by the reaction.

"Well you shouldn't," said Scott. He sounded confused and frustrated all on his own, which did nothing to help Stiles figure it out. "They screwed up your schedule here so you could take a break and learn what you need to know."

How did Scott still not get it? "I already know this stuff, Scott! I'm going _crazy_ trying to pretend to be this perfect stereotype that I'm never going to fit-"

Beside him, Malia helpfully stroked his head and Stiles only just barely refrained from snapping at her. He looked over at Lydia, accusing. "Who taught her that?" Lydia looked baffled while Isaac looked far too amused to be innocent. Scott talked over him, drawing Stiles' attention back.

"Yeah, well, it wasn't a cakewalk trying to figure out how to not kill people either but you made me learn that," Scott said. He was determined and Stiles was low-key shocked; he couldn't possibly really be hearing this. There was no actual way Scott would be comparing changing baby diapers to learning how to not shred another human being to pieces.

"You wanted to _kill me_ , Scott! How is this the same thing at all-"

"You can't just keep ignoring what you are, Stiles! It doesn't go away. And so what if you're a stereotype? At least then you don't have people trying to actively ruin your life. You'll figure out how to get back on track and stay in the rules-"

Stiles shook his head, not understanding at all how he had walked into a lynching. "What? This isn't the same thing at all, man. I have known how to deal with this stuff for eight years. It's the school that doesn't believe me."

"But it's not just learning how to deal with it physically, Stiles," said Allison. Even Lydia looked at her in surprise. "The stuff the school is trying to teach you is important. My mom lost her sister to this stuff-"

"What? Lost her- women don't have problems-"

Allison shook her head, talked over him, determined and focused like usual. "Yes they do. It's still an ectopic pregnancy nine times out of ten for female omegas, too. But she wasn't lost to childbirth. At least not as far as we know. She didn't want to follow the rules. She went on a hunt with family to a territory they didn't know and she didn't come back. We think the other hunters took her because we never found her."

"Are you kidding me right now?" Stiles lowered his voice and hunkered over his food on the table. The last thing any of them needed was to share this conversation with the others in the quad but he really wanted to yell. "I'm trying to just survive idiots telling me how to burp a baby and you're saying it's because hunters are going to, what, kidnap me and make me cook their little werewolf stew and sew the pelts together?"

"It's not a joke, Stiles!"

"No, this track is the joke."

"No, you are for not listening to them," said Isaac. "That's just stupid. Maybe they know more about it because we're on the other side of the fence from you. Did you think about that?"

Seeing the tempers rising around the table, Lydia reached out around Malia and folded Stiles' clenched fist under her hand to calm him. She looked to Scott and Allison and Isaac. "Stop this, right now!"

"Don't coddle him, Lydia," said Allison. "The school sent him to the track to help him. He can't learn what he needs to know if he's just going to fight them on it."

"But he shouldn't have to fight his friends about it," returned Lydia. "So just knock it off!"

"You need to learn, Stiles, that's all I'm saying," said Scott. "And I don't think you should be worrying about Beacon Community right now."

"I think you're wrong," said Stiles.

"Yeah, and your solution to this problem from the start has been to stick your head in the sand and pretend it doesn't exist. So you aren't thinking straight and you never have," replied Scott.

"I'm sorry, who was it that kept you alive when you lost your mind over a girl two years ago? Fangs, claws, _death_ all insignificant to the whole _girl_ thing. Oh, yeah, that was me, thinking straight and getting in trouble for it-"

"Don't even-" began Allison. At the same time, Scott talked over her, too focused on Stiles, the both of them too angry to really register.

"Yeah, and that was all new to me. I had to take time to sort it out and I did," said Scott. "You never did. You were always all hung up on Lydia and wouldn't even look at anybody. Look where that got you now, dude. A matchmaker and the omega track."

Stiles scoffed at that, frustrated. His best friend didn't even get it. "Oh, right. That's right. I forgot how this is all my stupid fault. I chose the matchmaker. I chose the Omega Track in my senior year. This is completely all my choice and I need to just buck up and take it, right? The school wants to screw an omega, I should just roll over and let them, right?"

"Yeah, if that's what it takes to fix it, then you do it," said Scott, just as brash and annoyed as Stiles had been.

The table went quiet at that. Lydia's hand tightened over Stiles' and the confusion from Malia between them bordered on fear. Stiles didn't even know how to accept that his friend had just said that to him and he sat in open mouthed silence. The first bell rang and Liam and Malia were suddenly breaking world records for speediest clean up and escape. Kira and Isaac weren't far behind. Scott stared back at Stiles and neither of them moved. But time dragged and Scott had a class to get to. He cleaned up and stood, he and Allison collecting their things.

"I mean it, Stiles," said Scott, quiet. "Just do the track. Graduate with us, okay? Just... Stop this."

Then his friend was walking away, with his friends. Which didn't apparently include Stiles anymore. Stiles was vaguely aware of Lydia saying his name, trying to get his attention, but he was too stuck trying to figure out what had happened to Scott.

 

***

 

Because of his dad and because of how he was raised, Stiles was a firm believer in the magic number Three. Once or twice, he could excuse something as a coincidence. Three times was a pattern. All things came in threes, good and bad, but usually mostly the bad. When somebody famous died, two more famous people would die within the week. When one person in the family died, two more would die within the month. Babies came in threes because there was some cosmic force that put something in the water at work or poisoned a well shared by family or friends. There were always threes, never did they stop at two.

So the first time Scott waved him off at a school, Stiles dismissed it; lunch was crazy because it was short, Scott was in a hurry to not get docked, so it was no big deal. They would fix it later. The second time, after school, Scott was busy, but it was just to get to lacrosse practice so Stiles figured it would be alright.

"Hey Scott!" he called. Scott stopped and waited for Stiles to catch up.

"Gotta get to practice," Scott said. He was already in uniform, gloves on and everything. Stiles wasn't, but he bucked up and didn't say anything about it. He just nodded like he had expected it.

"Okay, so after?" he asked. Scott pulled a face, scrunched his nose and shook his head.

"Work after," he said. He started moving toward the field again and Stiles kept up.

"Well, okay... skype tonight?"

Again Scott shook his head. He ducked into his helmet as they walked.

"Working on an English thing with Isaac," he said. For a moment, Stiles could only stare, surprised. Since when wasn't he invited to English things? Scott knew he'd read the books. Then Scott hit him on the shoulder and ran for the field.

"Gotta go, bye Stiles."

That was twice. It stung a little but no big deal. Scott was busy. But this was the third.

"Wait. Lydia. Did you just say you're with Scott?" he asked into his phone.

"Yeah? And Allison and Isaac and Kira and Liam... Where are you?" Lydia replied.

"I was definitely not invited so I'm at home," he said. He told her what Scott had told him only four hours earlier. When she spoke up again, she was angry but her usual polite self.

"Well, we're at the bowling alley. You are officially invited. Get your ass over here," she said.

It would have been better if Stiles had stayed home. To his credit, he thought about it. He hadn't been invited, maybe it was just a spur of the moment thing. Maybe it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Scott had been acting weird for a week or the fight they'd had at lunch that afternoon about Stiles going to the community college.

He should have stayed home.

Stiles hadn't been to the bowling alley since he was twelve. It had changed a lot, there was a laser tag room that hadn't been there before, but bowling was still the same. He found his friends and headed for them. Lydia pounced on him as soon as he got in reach, a kiss on the cheek and everything, so Stiles hugged her back. But she was the only one apparently happy to see him. Isaac was up to bowl and hardly looked at him, Allison's smile faded away, and Scott stood up from the bench by Kira.

"Stiles!" he said, surprised. Stiles wasn't getting any happy vibes from the greeting.

"Yeah..."

"I invited him," said Lydia. It was the tone she used when she was about to tell someone their logic was invalid.

"Where's your dad?" Scott asked. Stiles blinked at him, not sure how his dad featured in at all.

"Uh, at work. He's not home until nine tonight," he said.

"Then can you call someone? I mean, who does he know that can be here?" asked Scott.

"Wait, what?" Stiles asked.

"I can't be your escort. Who can you get?"

Caught off guard, Stiles just laughed. "Escort- Scott, it's a bowling alley. I don't even need one-"

"I don't want you to get in trouble again. You need one," said Scott. Words failed and Stiles just stared. Then he shook his head and turned away to leave. Lydia caught his wrist and Stiles pulled free.

"Stiles, wait," she said. She sounded frustrated too but it wasn't worth it.

"No. I'm not- that's just stupid," Stiles said. But he couldn't elaborate in the middle of the bowling alley. He didn't want to. He didn't want to bother at all. The bowling alley was public, there was a group of them, so according to Mrs. Malcolm's strict rules of propriety, Stiles was fine being there without an escort. The one small glitch was Lydia, because he hugged her, because she kissed him, and because anybody who knew him from school knew he had kissed her and her boyfriend at a party. _That_ bent the rules a little. But Stiles wasn't going to argue about the fine print nobody cared about. He went back to his car instead.

Lydia and Scott followed after him and Scott blocked the jeep's door.

"I don't need an escort for everything, Scott, jeezus. It's just the bowling alley," he said, waving at the building. He was frustrated but couldn't do anything about that other than leave and Scott was blocking his efforts at that.

"Yeah and it was just a party before, okay? You don't know all the rules yet, man-"

"I know that one! I'm not a complete idiot! I know things! I know this one!"

"Maybe you don't, and I'm not going to cover for it because I don't want you kicked out of school, Stiles! You don't know everything they could throw at you," said Scott. He sounded just as frustrated. Stiles shook his head, raised his hands and waved the whole thing off.

"Fine. I'll go home. I won't leave home without an escort, because they're so important. Forget the part where my best friends are _werewolves_ and I'm pretty much always surrounded by everything weird, this whole omega thing that I've had since I was _ten_ is sure kicking my ass," he said, all bitter, quiet sarcasm. "You'd think it was contagious or something."

"Knock it off," Scott said.

"Get away from my car so I can go home," said Stiles.

"No."

Lydia caught Scott's arm and pulled him away from the jeep. "He said he wants to leave. Back off!"

"No way!" returned Scott, easily shrugging free of Lydia's efforts. "He needs to realize-"

"No, Scott! You do!" Lydia wasn't very big and she couldn't do any damage at all to a werewolf, but she shoved him hard enough to get his attention. "You don't get to tell him what to do. He's not some omega, he's your friend!"

Scott didn't get it. "But he's still an omega and he's always in trouble-"

"Because of you, mostly," said Lydia. She quieted a little and added, "Or me. And that doesn't give us any right to boss him around."

"We're alphas, Lydia. I'm an alpha. If he's not going to listen to the school, it's on us," said Scott.

Stiles had never wanted to punch his best friend in the face harder than he did in that moment. He was distracted from it quickly when Lydia started toward Scott like she fully intended to. He caught her around the waist and had to lift her up to get her to stay back. She made a fist and pounded his arm instead as a hint to let her down. She composed herself fine, in true Lydia fashion, and then more calmly approached Scott. She put her hands on his shoulder and pushed him step by step away from the jeep's door.

"Yeah, you're an alpha, but you're not his. You haven't been for a long time and this kind of bullheaded-alpha rhetoric is why," she said. She was still angry and it showed in her voice and the hard expression on her face. "So if you can't be seen out with your friend in public then go back inside with your pack. He said he wants to leave. So let him."

It didn't make Stiles feel any better that Scott looked shocked by what Lydia said. He shook his head and made it into his jeep finally.

"Just forget it," he said. He sure as hell wanted to. He would have done a lot to be able to rewind time just five minutes, to have never shown up in the bowling alley. He would let Peter Hale crawl around in his head if it meant he could forget hearing Scott say out loud that he only thought of Stiles as an omega who needed an alpha to listen to. Stiles had never needed that. For years in the alpha track, he had worked hard to prove to people that he didn't need that. Nobody believed him, everyone dismissed him as the excitable, ADHD omega, nothing he did got through to anyone except his dad and he had thought Scott. Apparently he had been wrong. Scott cared, sure, but he was dealing with an omega, like everybody else.

Everybody wanted the best friend who got them, who liked the same things and lived the same brand of trouble, and Stiles had always thought that was him and Scott, but Scott was on a different page. He was an alpha and Stiles was the omega and that was a solid wall Stiles hadn't figured his way over yet. It hurt to keep running in to it lately. His hands shook a little and he gripped the steering wheel tighter to get it to stop. When he drove off, he checked the rear view mirror and saw Lydia leaving to get into her car, too, while Scott went back to go bowling with the others.

 


	6. Chapter 6

The next day at school, Stiles was still mad. He was distracted. He was not a fan of those days where the Child-Care class started things off. There was simply nothing better than waking up and getting to school and arguing with a kid trying to shove paint up his nose in the child-Care class. Another kid tried to wrap an entire roll of tape around his neck. Stiles understood now that children were a menace and the quieter they were, the deadlier. He wanted to go home and apologize to his father sometimes, and other times maybe not so much, because it wasn’t like his father didn’t know what he was getting into with the whole wife and family thing. Children were midgets who moved fast and smart and shifty, like tiny werewolves out to kill people taller than themselves, and that was just the natural order of things. It was terrifying. He started off his day terrified. By noon, he was just exhausted.

Given that he didn't want to deal with anybody over four feet tall giving him hell, Stiles went to eat lunch on his own. Shawn had his own crew of friends he ate lunch with and Senior Shadow duties did not extend to lunch hour. Normally Stiles would spend the first ten minutes with Scott and Lydia and the others, but the bowling alley incident effectively killed that habit. He found a place to sit somewhere with his back to the werewolves - a clear provocation or death-wish, he hadn’t decided - and ate his food in relative peace. It was boring as hell. He had other friends on the alpha track he probably could have gone to sit with, and he thought about it. It wasn’t the same. Stiles took a pass on it. He wasn’t in the market for new friends yet. He was just trying to figure out the ones he already had. So he set out a blank notepad beside his sandwich and randomly wrote down words on the page between bites of food, his idle mind writing a rant that he could turn in as a paper and probably get extra credit points for with the way the Omega Track worked.

"Okay. What gives?"

The voice startled Stiles and he scrambled to bury his notebook under his food bag before somebody saw the voluntary essay. He looked up and the panic didn't go down much.

"Hey, Danny..." he said, trying to belatedly pretend he hadn't just had a heart-attack. Danny arched an eyebrow at him. That clearly meant he had seen the topic of the slowly forming essay. Damn. "What? It's for class."

"What?" Danny asked, a new level of judgement reached as Stiles confused him. Stiles shook his head and waved it off, erasing it all from memory.

"What?" he asked. Danny rolled his eyes.

"I wanted to know," he said, with his usual superiority left over from his years of tolerating Jackson Whittemore. "Why you're sitting over here and Lydia decided for the past two days to go home for lunch and Scott is over there, like usual..."

Danny pointed back over Stiles' shoulder, because he had to be obvious about everything, for the sake of showmanship. Stiles tried not to get annoyed.

"Uh. There was a disagreement about the proper care and handling of the neighborhood Omega," Stiles said. He tried to shrug it off, dismissive. "So mom and dad aren't talking and the omega ran away. Keeps things more peaceful. Generally. Maybe."

"Not to sound like a Lifetime movie, but you know running away doesn't usually solve anything... Right?" asked Danny.

"I didn't say I ran away, I said the neighborhood omega ran away," said Stiles. "If Scott wants an omega bitch for the pack then he can keep looking for it. I, meaning Stiles, am right here, my normal self, writing an essay because school sucks. Like normal."

Danny actually looked concerned for a moment. "You know he's right over there and can hear you, right?"

Stiles hadn't actually considered that but he didn't really care. "He's the one who told me to get lost. That's his deal."

The bell rang then. Danny talked over the noise, his attention not so subtly split between Stiles and the farther off Scott. "Yeah... He heard you."

Stiles glanced over his shoulder at the group he was avoiding. Isaac was looking at Scott in confusion, Malia looked confused but highly offended, and Scott was a little pissed off. Liam was already packed and heading for the hills while Allison and Kira lurked and waited for an explanation to the werewolves' sudden attitude adjustments. Stiles looked back to Danny, not exactly feeling better about his life but at least a little vindicated.

"He has to get to class, right? Like I said, he knows how to find me when he wants to talk Mano y Mano. I'm just not here for the whole Mano y 'mega thing he was doing to me."

The expression on Danny's face told Stiles that Scott had heard him and wasn't happy again. Then Danny held up his hands to stay out of the drama.

"As long as you're okay, man. Jackson said to keep an eye on you. Wasn't sure why," said Danny.

"Probably because Lydia's got a big mouth when she's pissed off, so she told him," said Stiles. It was always awesome to find out his private scandals were all over the school and hopped across the pond to reach Jackson. "But yeah. I'm okay. Thanks, Danny."

"Sure, no problem. Anytime you need a microphone for the paranormal hardheads, look me up," said Danny. His tone said it was a joke, so Stiles figured the guy hadn't taken offense. It wasn't like Stiles had intended to talk to Scott when he should have just been talking to Danny, but he definitely had.

"Sorry, man. I'm just... Tired of it," Stiles said, quieter. Danny nodded. He still hadn't left to go to class.

"Need any help with your paper?" he offered.

It made Stiles laugh, surprised, and he shook his head. "It's extra credit. I got it. But thanks for the offer."

There was a moment of quiet, Stiles confused why Danny hadn't left and Danny looking slightly frustrated.

"Dude. You don't really just sit here your whole lunch by yourself, right?" Danny asked finally.

"Well I'm not by myself... There's people here..." Stiles said in his own defense. He waved toward the rest of the cafeteria. "There's, like, thirty of us in here..."

Danny was not impressed by the generalization.

"What? It's only since I switched tracks. I mean..." Stiles' train of thought derailed entirely when Danny pulled the chair out and sat down. He snagged the undefended notebook as Stiles was too distracted being surprised.

"Wait- what- class..."

Words were just not happening. Why was Danny taking his stuff? He had class to get to like the others. Danny just shrugged at him.

Danny waved the notebook at him but kept it out of reach. "My big sister's kid is three. I've been dealing with this stuff for years. I think you need the opinion of practical experience screwing with your argument."

Stiles reached ineffectively for the notebook, offended. What did Danny think they had him doing on the Omega Track if it wasn't practical experience? "I have practical experience, that's why I'm writing it..."

Danny dropped the notebook down in front of himself and crossed his arms over it. He rolled his eyes when Stiles settled down, annoyed. "You know, dude, this annoying stubborn streak of yours is why I never asked you out. You're as bad as Lydia. Three _years_ trumps three _weeks_ , right?"

"Okay, yeah, but _wait_ \- you were gonna ask _me_ out?" Stiles looked slightly scandalized. That was not a fair announcement at all. Danny shook his head.

"Not since you remind me of Lydia. That would just be weird. Like dating Jackson or something," said Danny.

Stiles' brow furrowed. "For the record, you're missing out there because he can do this thing-"

Danny held his hands over his ears."I don't wanna know! Can we talk about baby diapers and not Jackson?"

" _You_ started it."

" _Baby diapers..._ "

 

***

 

After two weeks the schedule was, for the most part, set. Jordan had gotten used to seeing Stiles at the sheriff's station every day. Sometimes Stiles and his dad stayed past Jordan's shift. The addition of the community college class would change things around a little but Jordan was surprised how strong his feelings were on that subject anyway. He didn't mention it to anyone at all, because he seemed to be in the minority and it wasn't his business to begin with, but he didn't think the college was a good idea. Stiles was stressed enough just acclimating to the change in tracks, starting college classes early would only add to it. But Stiles and his dad had it worked out, and Derek was helping to at least alleviate some risk. Jordan stayed out of it.

He did find himself at the station more in the afternoons though. Parrish hadn't had a partner since Haigh, which limited his options for calls he could respond to, but he didn't mind too much. There was no sense training with a new partner when his life was still hanging under the ominous supernatural whim of whatever had saved his life from the last one. That meant he set his own schedule and he planned to be at the station in the late afternoons lately. It wasn't out of the ordinary. Nobody looked at him twice for it.

Except Jordan himself questioned it. He caught himself speeding on the freeway to get back to the station and realized he needed to take a good, hard look at his choices in life. He wasn't sure he could fully identify why he was in a hurry to go do paperwork. It was just somewhere he knew he had to be. The sheriff could need help, especially if Stiles was there; not that the sheriff couldn't handle sheriffing while his kid was there, it was more that help could maybe be... Helpful.

Jordan wasn't entirely certain he wasn't losing his mind. Between the weird dreams and the lack of sleep and the inexplicable worrying, he had a hard time believing he was still fully sane. He stopped at the coffee shop on his way back to the station, not a normal side trip but he really wanted a coffee for some reason. He nearly walked out of the shop with a cookie too but he managed to fend off the impulse. He didn't need a cookie, he needed to get back to work. At the station.

The coffee he had walked out of the shop with was a little bitter, not quite Parrish's flavor, so when he got to the station he made a quick stop for creamer at the break room first. Or at least it was supposed to have been quick. When he got there, he found Stiles meticulously layering cookies on plates.

Cookies. The guy who was always hiding the donuts from the sheriff was now arranging cookies for public consumption. What on Earth?

"Hey," Stiles greeted when he saw who had shown up.

"Afternoon," replied Jordan. He went to fetch his coffee creamer and stood aside, watching Stiles work, as he fixed the bitter drink.

"Are you doing a unit on catering or something?" he ventured to ask.

"No? I'm proving Malcolm wrong," said Stiles. That was actually a pretty standard explanation from Stiles and Jordan listened as he told all about the class contest he had apparently only passed the day. They were supposed to make a recipe from memory out of only what was available in the pantry. Part of the requirement was to write the recipe down, measurements and all, and prove that it wasn't something they had made up on the fly. It was what passed for a pop-quiz on days the home-ec class had access to the classroom kitchen. Stiles said he hadn't been exactly the most prepared, but he had still done everything perfect and Malcolm wasn't impressed.

"Well why not?" asked Jordan. "What did you make?"

"Yodas."

Stiles seemed very proud of himself for the nonsensical answer so Parrish dared investigate. He and his coffee wandered over to the table. "What are yodas?"

Holding up a cookie, Stiles waved a hand around the oddly shaped food in a half-hearted impression of Vanna White. "Chocolate chip cookies with marshmallows. Because marshmallows are proof that the Force exists."

Jordan arched an eyebrow, not entirely certain he agreed, but he kept quiet about that. "They're green," he observed.

"That's why they're yodas. See, they're green, the marshmallows make them fluffy like a muppet, and look... They have- well, I mean, it's supposed to look like Yoda ears," said Stiles. He shrugged and bit off one of the wings that were apparently supposed to be ears. "My mom used to make them. It's like the first thing I ever learned."

"So... In terms of the assignment, you cheated," Jordan said, amused. He reached out and snagged a cookie from the pile. "Because it wasn't something you memorized for class."

"Well, yeah, but I was a little busy yesterday and I had this one memorized," said Stiles. He looked surprised. "I thought you didn't like junk food?"

"I like these," said Jordan, around a mouthful of cookie. “Not liking donuts doesn’t mean I don’t like any junk food.”

“No, it just makes you weird.”

But Stiles was smiling as he said it and Jordan smiled back. When Stiles looked away, back to the plate of cookies, there was no missing the pink slowly spread in the hollows of his cheeks and down his neck. Jordan blushed at that himself and looked to his coffee. The omegas he knew did something like that, too, the pink cheeks a dead giveaway. Jordan’s dad kept his face scruffy, not a beard but enough stubble on his face to hide the fact that every time Jordan’s mom walked in the room the bloodrush would tell on him. Even after twenty-five years, the man was still crazy for his wife. That was how it should be.

It just threw Jordan for a little bit of a loop to see Stiles look over at him like that. His boss’ son was definitely not up for consideration. On the other hand, the blush was never that innocent. Particularly not with Stiles, because Parrish had heard some stories from the ladies in dispatch about Stiles Stilinski’s dirty, if occasionally juvenile, mind. Pretty sure he was bound for that special hell reserved for betrayers and thieves, Jordan all the same angled closer on the excuse of taking another cookie.

“Maybe next time you should actually do the assignment,” he suggested, completely casual. “Broaden the _culinary_ horizons.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my culinary horizons,” replied Stiles.

“Not saying that. Just saying a man can’t live on yodas alone and trust me, ramen gets old. If you’ve got the chance, learn better,” said Jordan.

“I know how to cook, Malcolm’s class is just messing with my head.” Stiles shrugged it off.

“Yeah? So prove it.”

The challenge got Stiles’ undivided attention and he stopped messing with the plates of cookies. “Prove that Malcolm’s messing with my head?”

“No, that you know how to cook. Next time there’s something like today, break out the five course meal and just really show her that you’ve already got the class figured out,” said Jordan. “Then, bring it back here. We have starving deputies wandering the halls and she has an entire kitchen to make her own food.”

Stiles stared at him for a moment, like he couldn’t tell if he meant it or not. “I have, like, an hour in class. And one stove.”

Jordan shrugged. “Then I guess it’s okay if you want to let her keep messing with your head. It’s only an hour.”

“I mean, I can try a regular dinner maybe but not a feast,” said Stiles, slowly letting it all sink in. Jordan nodded.

“Do, or do not,” he began. Stiles huffed on a laugh.

“There is no try,” he said, finishing the line. Jordan smiled when Stiles blushed again. He nodded and took another cookie on his way out the door to get back to work.

“Feel free to bring these more often. I really think I love them.”

Stiles face lit up, amused but no less smug. “I know.”

Jordan paused at yet another familiar line. Then, since Stiles apparently approved, he snagged one of the plates of cookies and confiscated the whole thing. It sat on the corner of his desk for the rest of the afternoon and he horded them protectively, not unlike Stiles with the donuts. The thought that they were just cookies didn’t really register.


	7. Chapter 7

Monday after school, Parrish's challenge still hadn't left Stiles' brain. It sat there and prodded at him all during Malcolm's class as she droned on about the importance of being an omega Boy Scout, always ready for whatever showed up at the front door, because the successful alpha kept a successful omega. If there was anything Stiles knew for certain, it was that he didn't want "kept." And he didn't want to "keep" anyone, either. That was a supposedly two way street he never wanted to find his way on to. He was more on the independent track, two people doing their own thing and figuring out how to do it _together_. People were people, not objects to be kept. Mrs. Malcolm was wrong about so many things. So Stiles found himself wondering if it was possible to do what Parrish had suggested. Could he find a full course meal to memorize and pull off in the hour they had in the kitchen lab? Memorizing was easy, cooking could be more complicated. The question carried over into accounting and he spent that hour researching recipes, on the handy excuse that food had to be budgeted; two birds, one stone.

The jeep was back in the game finally. The keys had been unhidden that morning and Stiles had been cautiously granted permission to drive himself to school. So he granted himself permission to ditch it. Stiles skipped out after lunch - got a nurse's note and everything by feigning "omega problems" - and hit up the grocery store. Bags of groceries loaded in his arms, he climbed up to Derek's loft and let himself in to steal an hour with the man's kitchen.

It took a bit less than an hour. After forty minutes, Derek showed up. He didn't seem surprised to find Stiles in the loft, but he looked a bit wary of the fact that Stiles had taken over the kitchen.

"What are you doing?" he asked. What suspicion wasn't already in his expression made it to his tone instead.

"Homework," Stiles replied. He held up his phone to show the recipe webpage he was working from. "If Malcolm doesn't like the yodas, I have to get around her somehow."

Derek looked it over, then around at the mess on the counters and island. "Shouldn't you be in school still?"

"Faked it and got a note. It was really easy. I should have thought of that trick ages ago," said Stiles, smug. "They don't even check omegas for fever, just send them home."

Derek frowned at him but didn't say anything.

"What?" Stiles asked. Derek held a hand up, checking Stiles' forehead for a fever.

"Go back to school before your dad kills me for this," said Derek. Stiles rolled his eyes and moved away to check the sauce pan.

"I got a note," he repeated. "Dad won't care."

"Right."

He was far from convinced but Stiles accepted it. He moved on, showing off the individual culinary masterpieces he was learning to whip up, repeating what he remembered of the recipes as he went. Derek stole a piece of shrimp out of the pan and Stiles waited on the verdict from the taste-test.

"It's alright. But you should have cooked these last, they'll be cold soon," Derek advised.

"That's okay, it'll all have to be reheated when it gets to the station anyway," said Stiles.

"The station?"

"Yeah. Parrish said the deputies are starving so if I was going to prove Malcolm wrong, I should put the results to better use than the class," said Stiles. Or at least, that was what he had taken from the challenge anyway. Derek shook his head, amused.

"They're hardly starving, but whatever you want to do with it," said Derek. Stiles shoved a bowl of salad at him.

"I want to feed the starving deputies," said Stiles. "Or at least one of them. Or something. I don't know. Don't listen to me."

The flustered defense wasn't helped at all by the arched and definitely judgmental eyebrow from Derek. Stiles found something else to be doing that didn't let his face be so easily scrutinized. Derek didn't say anything but it wasn't fair how the man could cram _judging_ into _silence_. Stiles scrunched his nose and stirred at the Alfredo sauce slowly simmering in front of him. He cast a hesitant glance at Derek.

"You and Parrish are doing the whole friend-thing right now, right?" he asked. Both eyebrows got into the game then, along with wide eyes, and Derek looked like he was trying not to laugh.

"Really? Parrish?"

Stiles fought back against the light mocking by throwing another piece of shrimp back at Derek, but, because _werewolf_ , Derek just caught it and ate it like a normal person.

"I was just asking," said Stiles.

"Yeah, _innocent_ is _not_ something you do very well. Work on it," suggested Derek. All the same, his tone held patience and Stiles stared at him expectantly. Finally the man nodded, sighed.

"Yeah. We're doing the friend-thing, he shows me what his boring normal world is like and I show him he wasn't cursed," said Derek. "He hasn't figured out what's up with him, and I don't even have a clue."

Stiles frowned at that. "But he's not like lighting people on fire or anything, right? Or did he go all Rogue on us and can only touch people with gloves on or something-"

"No, Jordan's not lighting people on fire, god, Stiles."

"What? It's a valid concern!" Stiles shrugged it off.

"Stiles Stilinski." Lydia's voice echoed a little around the loft and Stiles cringed over the stove. He looked to Derek, accusing.

"Do you not know how to close doors? Jeeze, man," he muttered. Derek shrugged as Lydia crossed the room. She at least paused to close the noisy sliding door behind her. Then she launched into a lecture about faking illness and not mentioning to his friends that he was faking it. They had apparently been looking for him since he didn’t check in with Lydia at the lunch overlap like he usually did. Oops. So Stiles explained his project all over again. Lydia nodded her acceptance of it and took the offered plate of food to try. Making Lydia miss her lunch worked out well for Stiles.

"Hmm," she said, poking at the noodles and shrimp in the bowl. Then she sat down at a barstool at the island to eat. Stiles figured he dodged a bullet and started cleaning up the mess he had made of the borrowed kitchen.

"So what were you saying about J-bear when I walked in?" Lydia asked. "Gossip is a girl's second-best friend."

Not sure what to think about the reminder that Lydia had dated the man he had just been asking about, Stiles blinked and kept his attention on what he was doing. He glanced over at Derek and pretended he _wasn't_ silently begging the man not to say anything. He was pretty sure Derek laughed at him. But Derek just shrugged it off and made up some excuse about helping Jordan with the supernatural side of things. It bought Stiles at least another day to live before potentially dying of gossip-induced embarrassment.

 

***

 

It wasn’t like Jordan liked paperwork. He actually hated it. He understood that he had to write down what incidents he had responded to and what had transpired or been reported and it was all part of the job, but that didn’t make it _fun_. It was the perfect end to a Monday, doing things he didn’t like, but it had been a good day anyway. The paperwork was his excuse to be back at the station again. Of course, Stiles hadn’t shown up that afternoon before his Spanish class, so the effort had likely been wasted, but Deputy Parrish wasn’t going to let anybody figure that out. He was a cop first. His boss’ son was just a recent, however persistent, distraction that he hadn’t quite settled on how to handle. Jordan knew he had to do something soon though because it was interfering with work too much, being on the fence. He either needed to make a move or... maybe leave the county for a few months, he hadn’t figured it out yet. In the meantime, paperwork.

An hour from quitting time, the paperwork was interrupted by a plate of food being put down on the desk, actually on the paper-form of the report he was about to submit. It wasn’t expected and Jordan looked up to see Stiles standing at his shoulder, grinning and smug about something. Jordan smiled back at him before he caught himself and turned his attention quickly to the plate in front of him.

“I’ve made that twice today trying to get it right,” Stiles informed him. “And I kept trying to translate the recipe into Spanish during my first class this afternoon. So if it doesn’t get Malcolm off my back, nothing will and I give up.”

Jordan blinked at the food in front of him. “Well, it looks great...” he said. Stiles nodded and rolled a hand in a wave.

“Yeah but you’re not supposed to stare at food, man. You’re supposed to, you know, eat it.”

Jordan looked back up at Stiles, surprised. “Wait, you brought this for me?”

Stiles was already blushing and Jordan smiled when he saw it.

“You said you guys were starving around here,” said Stiles. He scrubbed at his messy hair - he said he refused to cut it even though the untenable Mrs. Malcolm wanted it to look more behaved - and his nervousness showed. “So I figured you could be the taste-test like you said.”

That was all the invitation he needed and Jordan went for the fork sitting patiently on the saucer under the bowl of pasta and shrimp. His enjoyment of the meal was dampened slightly by the sudden appearance of his boss off his other shoulder.

“Then where’s mine, kid?” the sheriff asked his son. Stiles scrunched his nose and waved his dad off.

“I hadn’t gotten to you yet,” was all he said. The sheriff looked mildly offended and Stiles only looked more embarrassed. Jordan hid a smile by burying it behind a mouthful of his unexpected dinner. It was really good and he forgot his manners for a moment, which wasn't a good thing all things considered, and he passed along the impromptu review. Then he waved his fork around to indicate the sheriff and Stiles both.

"Where's yours?" he asked. "I don't mean to be rude, eating before everyone..."

"Yeah," said the sheriff. He swatted at Stiles over Jordan's head and Stiles played back, his eyes narrowed at his dad.

"It's here. Jeeze," he grumbled. He moved to a bag on another deputy's desk and started digging through it. Two more bowls were brought out, served, and one went to the sheriff. No ceremony about it, no presentation, just a pass-off. It stood out considering Jordan had been handed his food at his desk. The deputy looked from Stiles to the sheriff and hoped he wasn't blushing.

"It's good food," he said helpfully. Stiles seemed to catch on and shrugged, his cheeks turning pink all the way back to his ears.

"What? I told you I hadn't gotten there yet. Jordan's desk is out here, on the way... You wanted it now, so..."

"Uh huh," said Sheriff Stilinski. Stiles dug into his food as an excuse to not look at his dad. The sheriff noticed. "I'm gonna go eat at my desk. Like a civilized human."

Stiles froze, fork midway to his mouth, then stopped and nodded. "Right. Manners."

The sheriff nodded at the teenager's catching on. "Manners," he said. He looked between the two, one eyebrow accusingly higher than the other, but he let his deputy live through the round.

"Sorry?" Stiles offered up. His dad stared at him for the longest time.

"Ah hell," he muttered. Then, hands held up - bowl of food included - in resignation, he turned and walked back to his office. Jordan looked from his boss to his boss' son. Stiles looked sheepish but he was grinning. It was something significant. Jordan wasn't reading too far into it because Stiles stared at him, not bothering to pretend otherwise. He wasn't overly concerned with his food anymore.

"Manners?" Jordan suggested. He stood and chased down a chair from another desk. "It's a desk and not a table but you don't have to stand at it."

Just a month earlier, the gesture of inviting Stiles to sit and eat a meal at the same desk wouldn't have been looked at twice. It was fine because there was distance, because Stiles was his boss' kid and he was a friend of a friend, a resource for the supernatural world Jordan had found his way into. But now Jordan realized he had blurred the lines between work and home life, shared too much with the Stilinskis and become involved. Stiles stared at the offered chair in surprise and Jordan held his breath without realizing.

There was a hesitance now because it wasn't exactly proper. There was a weight to the offer that hadn't been there before. The realization surprised Jordan. He was more surprised when Stiles set his bowl on the desk and rolled the chair to sit at the corner. Proper or not, the weight wasn't implied one-sided; Stiles knew there was something there to it and accepted it anyway. They were just possibly on the same page.

If Jordan were to ask Stiles out to dinner somewhere nice, somewhere that wasn't the sheriffs station, and the food wasn't something Stiles had taught himself as a way of flipping off a militant teacher, would he accept that invitation too?

Jordan swore under his breath and turned back to his food. He was in so much trouble.


	8. Chapter 8

That particular Tuesday, Stiles went to Derek’s again instead of the sheriffs station or home after school. He probably could have done things at home. Like Halo or Warcraft. But no, he wasn’t going to start preparing for a date on Friday like Mrs. Malcolm had suggested. No. Instead he sat at the table at Derek’s place, Spanish homework spread out all around him, trying to translate five pages of Orwell into another language. The loft was a safe space and Stiles planned to go there more often as an alternative to his dad's work since school was basically out of the question. He could do his homework and still be around people and not have Scott in his face about the part of school he didn’t like.

Derek left him alone on the subject matter. Except when Stiles got pissed off, or when he got stuck on some stupid cooking thing, Derek could fill in a blank or two because he’d had a whole pack of people growing up and a wider knowledge base. He could help out on the Spanish class homework from the community college work, too, because he sat in on the classes and he knew the language. And he was kind of fun to argue with about the online class’ history homework. It was weird but Derek was filling in for Scott now that the Omega thing got in the way. Stiles was pretty sure he would have gone insane without the help and Derek was kind of his favorite werewolf. Not that he would tell Scott that part, but Scott had Kira, so he was pretty well out of reach anyway since Kira’s family was really old fashioned on the Omega thing. And her dad was a teacher at the school, so he had seen the Facebook coverage. Life still sucked. But the loft was a nice little vacation from it.

Usually, anyway.

The door rolled open and Stiles looked up, complaint about the obnoxiousness of talking animals dying on his lips as he saw Peter Hale standing where he had expected Derek. The man had been out of Eichen maybe six months but Stiles was pretty sure he was still insane and he was positive Derek's uncle was still violent. He swallowed back the academic-based smart-assery and stuck to his usual schtick around Peter, bitter and perpetually bored with his presence. His attention fell back to the notebook in front of him on the table but he kept aware of where the man was.

“I see you’ve made yourself at home,” said Peter. “Where’s my dear nephew?”

“Apparently not here, but I’m not his secretary,” said Stiles. He shrugged. “I’m sure you could call him. See if he answers.”

“If Derek’s not here, why are you?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Man, I’ve had a key to this place for like two years. I’m always here.”

“Lately, anyway. It reeks of your existence,” said Peter. He draped his jacket over the back of the couch and paced to the table, poking at Stiles’ homework on the table. “Spanish?”

“Derek’s been helping me with it,” said Stiles. He was wary of saying much else about it, just enough to actually validate his presence so Peter didn’t turn into a jerk about him being there. The last thing he figured Derek needed was Peter finding out that the good sheriff of Beacon Hills had hired his nephew as an academic escort and tutor in the name of Stiles’ stubborn refusal to conform. It was a pack thing, Stiles figured, and he was still pretty sure Peter didn’t count as pack. At least not his and Derek’s. Family was different.

“Derek is good with the languages,” said Peter. He pulled out a chair and turned it around, straddling it to cross his arms over the back and lean in over the table. “He’s known this one since he was five. He had a little more trouble with Latin, but he was older then. And he took French in high school, but I’m obviously not sure how far he went with that.”

Stiles stared at the man, confused by the sharing. Deciding not to read into it, he returned to his work and tried to at the very least look busy. The idea of ironing a shirt and tie for his date on Friday was looking a little more appealing though. Peter would never not trigger his Stranger Danger alarms. Just when it looked like the con was going to fly, like maybe Peter was bored enough to find something else to do, the man flipped a few papers toward Stiles to cover up his work and catch his attention.

“So. I’ve been hearing little birdies the past few weeks,” he said. That was never a good thing. Stiles looked up, reluctant and wary. Peter didn’t give anything away, the expression on his face only his usual bored bemusement.

“There’s specialists for problems like that,” Stiles pointed out. As Peter well knew, given his time in Eichen. Peter quirked an eyebrow.

“The rumor mill says you’re embracing your bloodline, at long last,” said the werewolf. “Our little Omega Stiles, finally growing up, admitting his place in the world.”

“Okay, first off, my place in the world is none of yours or anybody else’s business. And my place in the world has jack-shit to do with the ‘mega thing,” said Stiles. Peter clucked at him, placating but also challenging him.

“Werewolves, Stiles. Your private business gets to be our business because _your_ business announces itself to our every observation of the world around you,” he said. Stiles must have pulled a face because Peter rolled his eyes again. “Your heats synched up with the moon cycle within three months of Scott dragging you into our little party. You give off this delicious scent every full moon, and it’s not fair to the rest of us if we’re completely honest.”

Stiles shut his notebook and started packing up. That was the worst possible news considering the full moon was only a few days away. Peter wasn’t exactly moon-crazy but if he was so hung up on Stiles’ cycle, there was no possible happy outcome to the conversation. He still leveled a glare at the man.

“Whatever rumors you heard, they didn’t open my life up for discussion,” he told him.

“Why not? Obviously everyone else is discussing them, the floodgates have finally opened. And there’s a few things I want to clear up before they clench up again,” said Peter. He trapped a few pieces of paper out of Stiles’ reach so they couldn’t be collected. Stiles kicked at the table leg and shoved back in his chair, frustration curbed at great personal effort. As Peter had pointed out oh-so-helpfully, he was only days away from the worst week of his month and his patience started out thin to begin with.

“Fine,” he said, growling it out as much as talking. “What is so fascinating to you about the fact that once a month I really, really, really want to shoot werewolves with wolfsbane?”

Peter held his papers hostage and shuffled them, tapped them neatly into a pile and then leaned his elbow on them as he laced his fingers and set his chin on his hands.

“In all your presumed expertise on your status as an omega, have you ever looked into what an omega brings to a werewolf pack?” asked Peter. Stiles balked, jaw slack as he stared at him.

“No, let me google that one real quick, I’m sure somewhere there’s a blog on it,” he replied. “I just kind of always assumed I brought _myself_ to the pack and everything else was just kind of sidelined, because _werewolves_.”

“Oh, that’s certainly part of it, and you know how much everyone enjoys your sass and sarcasm darkening our door,” said Peter. It was suddenly clear that there was something somehow actually profitable to the wolves around the omega and Stiles wasn’t sure he wanted to know about it. Having a place to belong had gotten really important to him lately and he didn’t want to have to walk away from Derek because of some stupid BS from Peter. The guy was way too smug just then for it to be anything other than BS, but it could still be a threat to his sanity. He wasn’t sure if it was a save or not when the front door rolled open and Derek walked in, sweaty and looking like he had been out on a run in the rain. He also looked a bit pissed off.

“Peter, nobody wants to hear about it,” he said. Yep, he was pissed off, and growly. Stiles took advantage of the distraction and reclaimed his stack of Spanish notes. He shoved them into his textbook with the rest and started packing it into his backpack.

“I would think, whether anyone wants to hear about it or not, the boy has a right to know what he’s playing with,” said Peter. Derek looked mad enough to growl but he didn’t.

“He’s not _playing_ with anything,” said Derek. “He’s pack.”

“Yes, an omega in a werewolf pack, entitled to all the benefits and hazards therein,” said Peter. Derek rolled his eyes and had to look away from Peter. He nodded Stiles toward the door.

“Out,” he ordered. And Stiles was not the slightest bit inclined to argue.

“When are you going to tell him then?” asked Peter, ignoring the dismissal.

“I’d tell him if it was relevant to anything other than your daydreams. And it’s not, so it’s just your hangups on outdated traditions,” said Derek. He waved for Stiles to move away from the table and Stiles headed for the door, only risking losing his shield of a table between himself and Peter when he was certain he could put Derek between them just as quickly. Derek caught his arm and walked with him, like he planned to leave, too.

“I know it’s a damn small pack, Derek, but you put us at risk with this-” Peter’s complaint was met by a blue-eyed glare and an angry face from Derek.

“I said drop it,” said Derek. Peter arched an eyebrow.

“And you’re not the alpha you once were, nephew,” replied Peter. “I can tell you when I think you’re wrong.”

Frustrated, Stiles carefully angled his arm out of Derek’s grasp. “I’m not a risk to the pack,” he said, stubborn on at least that. Of all the things in the world that were a risk to the pack, Stiles was literally the last on the list, down there with, like, bunny rabbits. The whole lack of werewolf-anything made him a non-concern to them.

“No, you’re not,” agreed Derek. “You’re fine. It’s someone else I’m worried about-”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Please. Stop coddling him.”

“I’m not-” But Derek went quiet because he obviously was coddling Stiles. Stiles stared at him, then over at Peter again. The jerk was right. He really was being coddled. Stiff shouldered, he lifted his chin to be sure the defiance was known.

“Fine. Then just tell me,” said Stiles. "I am so beyond done with the surprises from this omega shit, I've been stuck with it for years and now everything's showing up to screw me over so might as well add in the werewolf angle all at once."

"Turn a phrase like that and you remind me why nobody likes swearing around an omega," said Peter. He waved a hand, conjuring something. "The mental images... Can't be healthy."

"Knock it off," growled Derek. "That is not why Stiles is here and you and I have had this conversation before."

"So you say, but now the boy's come to his senses, he should have the option," said Peter.

"It's not an option," said Derek. Stiles' attention pinged back and forth between them, surprised by the anger he saw from them both.

"What the hell-" his question went unnoticed. Peter still felt like ranting.

"What happens when his little appointments with the matchmaker pay off, Derek? Have you considered that?"

"He's pack, it doesn't matter," argued Derek.

"Isaac was pack," said Peter. "Emphasis on the past-tense."

"Wait, what is this about?" Stiles tried again. Peter glared at him.

"It's about the unattached omega that makes up one-quarter of our so-called pack," said Peter. "And the fact that the omega is looking for an attachment, _outside_ the pack. Because the problem with omegas is they're housebound subservients to the one who latches on, gets their hooks in. Then there's no more pack, because we can't exactly go up to the new owner and ask if Stiles can come out to play with the wolves."

Whether he knew it or not, Peter had just pried in to half of Stiles' worst fears and somehow dragged the pack into them. Scott had already all but shut him out, acting like Stiles was a piece of territory someone else had claimed. He hadn't even found anyone yet and Stiles was already being treated like he was off-limits. And now Peter crammed logic in there right alongside; he wouldn't keep the place he had in the pack, with Derek and Lydia, if he got locked up behind some contract. Stiles looked to Derek, alarmed despite himself.

"I don't want to leave though," he said. He wanted to beg for help but there was nothing for Derek to help with that he wasn't already doing. Derek shook his head.

"You don't have to. It's fine," he said. Peter arched an eyebrow at them.

"You realize the solution to this-"

Derek closed his eyes as he otherwise scowled up at the ceiling. "Oh my god, Peter! Just stop talking-"

"Make me," returned Peter. His attention was on Stiles and damned if Stiles wasn't stupid enough to hope the man actually had a solution. "It's simple. Derek. He's your favorite alpha, he's already the approved escort to see you safely to school, and if either one of you even tries to tell me you wouldn't like to do dirty, sexy things to the other, I will be forced to claw out your lying tongue."

At that threat, Stiles shut his mouth quick. Well, Peter certainly knew how to make life awkward. But that _was_ a solution. Stiles glanced over at Derek, found him still staring at the ceiling, silently seething. Not a good sign. Stiles opened his mouth again, trying to sort out what to say, but Derek must have noticed because he lowered his gaze then to look at Stiles.

"He's trying to sell it, Stiles. He's hung up on tradition and survival, nothing else," said Derek. He shrugged and nodded toward his uncle. "Ask him what he thinks an Omega _attached_ to the pack is supposed to do. For the pack."

That didn't sound good. Stiles glanced over at Peter, afraid to ask. The man just rolled his eyes, ever suffering from the ignorance of his nephew apparently.

"A pack has strength and power in numbers. An omega provides the numbers," said Peter. "The easy way. Litters at a time. In less than a year we could add maybe four little souls to the pack without even trying."

Tense like he was retaining the urge to attack his uncle, Derek instead looked to Stiles. "So in _his_ perfect world, you're a broodmare. Popping out Hale babies. For the power of the pack," he said. "So can we go now?"

“Wow.” For a long moment that was all Stiles could even think to say, somewhat amazed Derek had managed to say any of what he had said out loud. He liked to think he knew Derek about as well as he knew Scott. He could read the guy easier than he could ever get a clear understanding of what went on in Lydia’s head, certainly. But over the last year, they had formed their weird little pack, they were friends, and there was trust there. Stiles and “Hale babies” belonged nowhere in the same sentence together, that much was clear. It was a relief but Peter hadn’t been entirely wrong on that front; Stiles would have gone for Derek if the guy wanted to give it a shot. He had been relying on him a lot lately, especially with Scott and the others having all but dropped off the planet. Trusting Derek wasn’t a problem anymore, at all. That was suddenly a problem all on its own, with Peter lurking around, having an agenda. It wasn’t safe to trust even Derek. Derek was Derek, he was mad at Peter, but that didn’t mean Stiles was safe with the Hales.

More or less resolved on that front, and hurting for it, Stiles tried to shake it off. He tugged his backpack up onto his shoulder, any excuse to move, and looked over at Peter again.

“No,” he said simply. It was a firm scolding to a misbehaving dog and Stiles was done. He left then on his own, Derek a few steps behind instead of leading him out like some kind of protector.

“Stiles- wait...” Derek caught his attention but he just kept walking. He didn’t even have the patience to wait for the lobby elevator, just kept going to the big stairwell. Derek trailed after him but didn’t run to catch up and that worked for Stiles because he didn’t want to stand around talking where Peter could invite himself into things. It shook him up too much to realize how much he had depended on Derek by having it thrown in his face that maybe he was more of a pet omega than a part of a pack. School had knocked him down and Derek had caught him, because they were friends and Derek wasn’t the shitty, self-centered, alpha he had been when they first met. But now the doubt was there and Stiles cleared three floors without shaking it.

He let Derek catch up at the jeep, just tossed his pack in the car and turned around and there was Derek. He wasn’t in Stiles’ space but he was too close to be ignored. Stiles nodded up toward the loft.

“I don’t want that. That’s not what I’m here for,” he said. “No Hale babies. No wolf babies, no banshee babies, none of that. And definitely not on _his_ say so.”

Derek shook his head quickly. “I know. And every time he brings it up I shut him down. It’s Peter running his mouth. There’s nothing from him you have to listen to.”

“Yeah, I know. He’s your family but he’s not pack,” said Stiles, repeating the now familiar refrain. Derek nodded but went quiet. It frustrated Stiles. He wanted to shout or punch something, but he was too damn exhausted from the last few weeks of things that weren’t even important suddenly shoving in his face. He felt like he was shaking and it took a lot to just keep still. He stared at Derek, met the man’s eyes and tried to trust his own instinct, to gauge if he could trust his friend or not.

“The problem is _you_ have to listen to him,” he said finally. “You’re his keeper. He gets in your head. And he ruins everything. Just... everything. So I can’t... just ignore him now. That’s the problem isn’t it? I ignored everything and it came back to bite me.”

For a second something almost like grief flashed across Derek’s expression but he set his jaw and it was gone with a shake of his head. “That won’t. I promise, you aren’t- like you said, that’s not why you’re here, Stiles.”

No matter how much he wanted to believe the guy, the doubt hurt too much. He could point to a dozen memories in the last two years of Derek showing up hurt or hungry or needing help that were suddenly tinted with the omega shadow; did he go to Stiles for help because he was a friend or because he was an omega and it was his _job_ somehow? He couldn’t tell. It was shoved up in his face and too close to focus on, his mind kept rejecting it. So he shook his head and put some distance in between himself and the problem.

“I’ll be at the station. If you still want to help me with the college stuff, the whole freaking escort thing, I’ll meet you there tomorrow,” he said. That was definitely anger that tugged at Derek’s expression then but he just nodded. He stood back, arms crossed, to watch Stiles jump into the jeep. When the door was closed, seatbelt barely remembered, Stiles reached for the gear shift to get the old monster of a vehicle moving. His hand was very definitely shaking and he couldn’t get it to stop. It felt like the beginning of a panic attack. That was the last thing he needed, so he got a little angry himself and powered through it. The jeep swung out of the parking spot and took the curb a little rough as he got out on to the street. He realized a block or two later that he had lied to Derek; there was no way he was going to the sheriff’s station. He could barely keep it together by himself, other people nosing in would make it worse. So Stiles went home on his own.

 

***

 

Panic attacks weren’t anything new. He had first gotten them after his mom died, when his life was falling apart around his ears. His dad was sick from grief, busy with work when he wasn’t, and he just didn’t have his mom anymore. It still wasn’t clear to Stiles which was worse, his mom being gone and out of reach or those days when his dad was there but never home. They chalked it all up to the omega thing a year later and Stiles saw a shrink for the whole transitional thing, talked through the heats and the panic attacks and thankfully never had to blame his mom for anything. And the panic attacks went away when his dad got the job as the interim county sheriff because Stiles found a new niche in his life, something else to focus on. He figured himself out then, watching his dad prepare to run for election to the job he had taken over when the former sheriff retired.

Those few months, Stiles watched the officers doing their jobs from a different perspective, because the boss’ kid had a higher clearance than just some deputy’s kid. He made the station his home and he belonged there. He pried into cases by eavesdropping like a fiend, he watched drunks processed into the drunk tank, watched fights happen in the lobby with perps who had done bad things, saw people make reports and people get help. It was a real world to him, and smack in the middle of it was his dad, not just pushing papers around but making a difference. His dad wasn’t sick from grief _at work_. He was his dad, he was on his game. So Stiles figured out he wanted to be a cop. He wanted to do _that_.

And now Stiles was older and that goal was off the table. It had been shoved in his face for weeks that there would be no police academy in his future, he would be lucky to get to go to college. He would be lucky if he found some alpha willing to let him to go to school, or even one at all because he wasn’t used to the attitudes of the other kids on the Omega Track. He couldn’t fit in. He was shit at _dating_. To make everything weirder, even Scott had stopped returning phone calls and never texted.

The one thing Stiles had left that made sense in his stupid life were the stupid werewolves, the only place left that he belonged was what felt like pack. He had Derek, he had Lydia and he’d go to the wall for them and they’d do the same for him. And Stiles sat curled in the corner by his bed that afternoon in absolute panic because he didn’t have the pack. Maybe he’d never had it. Peter had started them on the course they were on two years ago, he had gone after Lydia and he had gone after Stiles, just like he had gone after Scott. There was no way to know Peter’s manipulations hadn’t been behind Derek’s decision to let Stiles help look for Erica and Boyd that summer. He wanted to trust Derek. But even Lydia had ignored Stiles for years before Derek had stepped up; the doubt was inescapable. And if he didn’t have them, if he couldn’t trust them, what was left? Where else did he go if he couldn’t go to them or the station? He didn’t belong _anywhere_.

The realization had hit him hard on the drive home and by the time he made it to his front door, his stomach hurt. He shook like a leaf and his breathing wouldn’t even out. Short gasps, sharp fear that he wouldn’t get another breath if he didn’t reach for more. He dumped his stuff in the hall and got up the stairs in a weird sort of stagger that involved a lot of leaning on the wall and sheer determination to press on to the next level. Nothing was working to get his mind off the fear or even just the things that had triggered it. He crashed into the corner and tried to make himself relax, because he was safe in his room. Even if he never left his room again, he was safe there. That was reassuring enough to let him breathe and he kept his thoughts latched on to that: he was safe where he was. It let him calm, eventually.

Even then, he didn’t dare leave his room after that. He just sat between his bed and the wall and watched his arm tremble, his hands shake, where he braced them against his knees. That was new. The shakes normally didn’t get very bad, and they normally left after the attack was done, but the last few days they had hit at random. Now he knew what had triggered it this time and it wasn’t really fading off fast enough. There were a few explanations for that but Stiles knew if he thought about it too much he would just trigger another panic. So he finally crawled up to the edge of the bed and then into the middle of it. He punched at his pillows and tugged one into his arms, squishing it to him as he curled up around it. The shakes gradually stopped as he faded off to emotionally exhausted sleep.

 

***

 

The parking lot was a normal lot. Nothing frightening or intimidating about a parking lot. But Jordan sat in his truck, in his jeans and t-shirt and hiking boots, feeling like he was staking out a bank. He had lost his mind somewhere over the last week and he probably should have called on his dad to talk sense into him. But he hadn't. It was his life and his call. He was old enough to think for himself.

He was pretty sure his thinking was faulty. But he couldn't get the plan out of his head. It started as an idle thought, became an idea, and now it was a plan. It wasn't going to leave his head until he did something about it, and Jordan had yet to fail at something he put his mind to. He had almost just asked at the station the day before but he wanted to do it _right_.

Stiles and his dad had opted to go through a matchmaker, that was their decision, that was the right thing to do. That was what tradition said, that was what society said, and some combination of the two had steered the Stilinskis to the matchmaker even though they didn’t fully agree with it. So Jordan would go to the matchmaker.

He could only hope he was a match to the one he had apparently fallen for and that was the gamble that made it the right thing to do. He didn't want to risk asking Stiles for a relationship that didn't suit him. A matchmaker would know to make that call. Jordan knew what he wanted for himself, knew what he was willing to chase after, but he couldn't gamble like that with his boss' son. Jordan was set on this course of action.

The only thing keeping him stuck in his car was the fact that the matchmaker happened to be Lydia Martin's mother. Given that he and Lydia had dated for a month last spring, before Jackson Whittemore had come back for summer break, it could be _slightly_ awkward asking her to place him with an omega. Jordan didn't plan on mentioning Stiles' name but he didn't know what kind of questions a matchmaker would ask. The most terrifying possibility lurking in the back of his mind just then was that he would be tricked in to somehow _asking_ that the woman match him up with one of her daughter's best friends. That wouldn't look good. What if they weren’t a match? Could a matchmaker’s test figure out if he was good enough for his boss’ kid in the first place? He could get paired off with someone not Stiles and find himself in over his head. He knew Stiles, there wouldn’t be any un-Stiles-like awkwardness to get over if he was matched with Stiles. But courting an omega was a big, formal deal and people got hung up on it. Jordan didn’t know anything about it and should have researched before sitting his ass in a parking lot outside the matchmakers’ place. The whole _plan_ was a huge _risk_.

He was still staring out the windshield and willing himself to man-up when someone caught his open window and thumped against the door. The sudden invasion startled him and Jordan jumped, looked over to see Lydia grinning smugly at him in the window. He felt only mildly relieved.

"Lydia!" It was equal parts greeting and chastising.

"Deputy Parrish," Lydia replied. She was smiling, taunting. She knew. _Oh shit_. Somehow Jordan refrained from asking if banshees could read minds.

"Not in uniform," he pointed out instead. "Just Jordan."

"Well. I can't help but notice that Just Jordan is sitting in his car outside the matchmaker's office," said Lydia. She still leaned on the window. Jordan couldn't drive away without potentially injuring her. But he did consider it.

“It’s a free country. I can sit in my truck where I like,” he reminded her.

“Or you could just... I don’t know... actually go into the office instead of stare at it,” Lydia suggested. Jordan set his jaw and scrunched his nose, stuck. Lydia rolled her eyes at him and tugged at the door.

“Get out,” she instructed.

“What? Why?”

“Because you’re obviously here for a reason and whatever that reason is, they don’t deserve a deputy boyfriend who’s afraid of walking into an office building,” reasoned Lydia. Jordan wanted to argue it but he really couldn’t. He reluctantly rolled up the window and locked up his truck to let Lydia steer him toward the office. This was exactly the worst thing that could have happened to him, and it was his own fault for sitting in the truck instead of getting the embarrassment over with. Now he had _Lydia_ grilling him for details, who was he here for, why the sudden interest in matchmaking when he did just fine on his own out in the wild, hadn’t he met any nice omegas out there on his own... oh yes, the brilliant little banshee knew things. Jordan stopped at the doors and refused to budge.

“Look, if this is going to be weird for you then-” He wasn’t exactly backing out but Lydia interrupted him anyway.

“This isn’t weird for me at all. If you’re waiting around for my blessing, for one thing you’re an old fashioned adorable idiot, and for the other, you’ve got it. And if it’s my mother you’re worried about... She can get a little cougar sometimes so if I were you, I’d be more worried about accidentally inviting her to dinner than what she thinks about your interest in her services as a matchmaker.” The simple, straightforward advice was accompanied by Lydia conscientiously waving out the creases in his t-shirt and making sure his short hair held the style she wanted it in. Jordan was reminded again why he didn’t mind so much that he and Lydia hadn’t stayed together.

“I’m not sure you understand just how surreal and weird this is,” he finally said, swatting her hand away from his face. Lydia shrugged.

“Probably not. My definitions are a little more expansive than yours,” she replied. Then she held open the door and waved him inside. “This is why you were in the parking lot, right?”

Jordan took a deep breath and nodded. Then he stepped inside and committed to the track he had chosen. Lydia caught his hand and towed him along behind her as she bypassed the receptionist with little more than a wave. A moment later they were walking through an open doorway.

“Mom, I just found this riff-raff lurking outside,” she announced. Natalie looked up from her computer just in time for Lydia to physically push Jordan toward one of the chairs in front of the desk. “I promised him you could help. So work your magic, Mother.”

Natalie blinked between them before she finally settled on Jordan and started drumming her fingers against the desk, thinking it over. After what felt like an eternity to Jordan, the woman looked to Lydia instead.

“What do you think?” she asked. Lydia offered up a shrug.

“I think it could work,” Lydia said. Natalie smiled again before looking at Jordan. She smiled, genuine, but no less up to something.

“Oh, I am so glad you like them younger.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...in which Stiles finds his zen, loses it, and swears a lot while he's at it...
> 
> (and as a side note... this fic is now complete! Just waiting on beta-like-duties. But you'll probably be getting two posts at a time. :) )
> 
> \----

The next day at school, the cobwebs had cleared a little and Stiles felt mostly like a functional human being. He felt like a functional human being who hadn’t had enough sleep the night before, but he could at least think about things other than the loss of his friends. They weren’t really gone, he was fine. He just needed to maybe give them all some space for a awhile, maybe try to fix things with Scott to make sure he didn’t end up the actual omega of the Omega Track, maybe get more sleep just in general. Wouldn’t hurt. Whatever. It was a Wednesday and a short day, so he could make it. He shrugged it all off and dealt with classes the best he could in the meantime.

Mrs. Malcolm made sure to make a point about how sleep was integral to the human body’s regular functioning and especially important to young and growing omegas because everything was especially important to young and growing omegas. Stiles made sure to slouch in his chair during that part of class but he wisely refrained from putting his arms on his desk where he might take a nap on them. He was really glad they weren’t doing anything in the kitchen that morning though. His hands were shaky and there were battles he didn’t want to wage that morning; proper cleaning procedure was a big one.

His health class watched a movie and Stiles took advantage of that to nap at the back of the room unnoticed. There was no drama there, or in home accounting right after it. But he thought very seriously about ditching his child-care class when he found out they would be working with the kids that afternoon. He wanted to be nowhere near the potential for a child to choke and someone to make him do CPR on a tiny body. Unfortunately Mr. Vecchio saw him between classes and there was no way the man would let him off the hook so he had to show up.

The school had a daycare center for teachers to bring their kids, and a few of the Omega Track kids had kids there too. One of the omega students who had stuck it out on the alpha track had their kid in the daycare; Stiles had met him one day already when he showed up after school to pick up the kid. Michael was alright, and the kid was cute, but Stiles wasn’t sure how the guy managed it. Kids took energy and school took energy, things Stiles had plenty of usually, but he already had werewolves and didn’t need a three-way split. It was hard enough just wrangling the kids for an hour and a half every few days.

His midget-partner for the afternoon noticed that Stiles was off his game that day.

“You don't do the voice right,” the five-year-old informed him. They were attempting to read a book during the class quiet-time to prepare for naptime, and Kendra was very particular about her quiet-time reading. She had picked the book and she had picked the patch of rug where they would sit. Stiles had been assigned two kids that day, Kendra and her younger brother Bryan. Bryan was a champ, completely chill and let his sister call all the shots, so Stiles tried to follow the three-year-old’s lead. But the three-year-old wasn’t going to do the voices for his sister. Stiles floundered around for a moment, trying to sort out what to do about his apparent failure as a human being for not knowing the proper voices. Then he tried again and still got the same report. This time, Kendra took the book from him, very carefully closed it, every movement prim and deliberate as she set the book in her lap. She sat up a little straighter and steepled her tiny hands and looked Stiles right in the face.

“We have to get to the bottom of this,” she announced, quiet and serious. Stiles had to bite back a laugh. Lesson learned for the day: do not mess with a child’s reading time by missing the voice-acting. Beside her, Bryan nodded in a perfect mimicry of his sister’s somber mood.

“Okay, yes,” said Stiles. He squinted and tried not to smile, all business.

“You aren’t _feeling_ Piper. She’s a mouse, she’s small like us. You’re big. You’re too big to sound like a little mouse,” Kendra said. She gave a dismissive wave. “We could go get somebody else to read to us, but they’re all big. You’ll all mess it up.”

The girl was giving the problem very serious consideration and Stiles was actually worried he was about to get failed for the day by a five-year-old. “Well, what if you read it and showed me the voice?”

Kendra shook her head. “No, no. Let’s work on _you_.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes at her. He noticed the laminated name tag clipped to her shirt sleeve - because the school had bar-codes for all the kids to make sure they never went home with someone they weren’t supposed to - and realized he was in trouble. According to the last name on the name tag, Kendra’s mom was a psychology teacher over on the Alpha Track, which meant that her dad also happened to be a psychologist and Stiles was about to get shrunk by a five-year-old, _not_ failed. He gave up then and mimicked how she sat, gave her his full attention.

“You need to sound like the mouse,” she informed him. “Why can’t you sound like the mouse?”

“I’m not a mouse, just to start there,” Stiles replied. Kendra waved a hand

“Right, you’re too big. Whatever. Why can’t you pretend you’re small?” she asked.

“Because I’m not, so it still doesn’t sound right.”

“But it’s just for the book. You aren’t really small, you just _pretend_ to be small.”

Stiles opted to change tracks because that was a losing battle. “Why don’t you read the book to me and do the voices right so I know how to do the voices?”

“Because you’re supposed to read to us,” said Kendra. “It’s your job.”

“Well, why can’t you _pretend_ it’s your job this time?” asked Stiles.

“Because I don’t want to,” said Kendra. “It’s your job.”

“Right. So it’s my job, right?” Stiles asked. Kendra and her brother bobbed their heads. “So what if you _help me_ with it? I’ll read, but when there’s voices, you do the voices, and we help each other.”

Her fingers drumming against each other like some kind of mini-evil-genius, Kendra thought it over. Finally she nodded. “Okay. I’ll help. And you’ll do the voices right next time.”

“Right,” agreed Stiles. Kendra accepted this and handed him the book back. Then she moved over to lean against him and supervise the reading of the pages. Bryan tried to climb in her lap and she fussed at him so he moved around and climbed on the couch behind Stiles instead. They gave the book another shot and it worked out much better, Kendra making Piper the mouse squeak with her choppy out-loud-reading skills. Bryan stayed chill and quiet, quiet huffs of laughter or surprise at things in the book when the pages turned. Somewhere along the way as they read, the kid had started petting Stiles’ head, playing with his hair because it was already messy and shaggy anyway. Stiles didn’t really mind.

 

***

 

Maybe old people were really nice when they were younger and it was some kind of weird karmic joke that they turned in to smiling bullies once they made it to their senior citizen status. There was no telling how it happened but it happened. Stiles had never before in his life wanted to take a barstool to an elderly person's soft cranium but he was certainly considering his options that afternoon.

With Peter being unusually like his asshole self lately, and school being toxic, and Scott being an elitist snob, Stiles was left with two options after school. He could either go home and sit by himself to do his homework packet, or he could go to the station house and be reminded all about the job he was never going to get a fair shot at. So, for the sake of his sanity, Stiles made a third option. He went to the coffee shop.

It didn't save his sanity much.

A woman in her sixties recognized the name on his to-go cup and took that as invitation to interrupt his study time.

"Stilinski?" she asked. "You're the sheriff's boy?"

Stiles looked up from his Spanish notes, blinked at the unfamiliar face as he tried to figure out why she was talking to him. She wasn't from the school and he had never seen her at the station.

"Uh. Yeah. That's me," he said.

"Why are you here? Shouldn't you be at school?" The woman seemed offended by the breach in protocol.

"School got out a half an hour ago," Stiles told her, forced politeness for the interrogation. "I'm doing my homework. Here."

The answer seemed to please her and she sat down at the table across the aisle from him. That wasn't a good sign. Stiles offered a half-hearted smile and ducked his head to focus on his work.

"My granddaughter showed me the video from that party," the woman told him. Stiles choked on air. "And here, I voted for the sheriff. I'm surprised you would do such a thing to such a nice man, making such a scene of yourself. I hope you've been working on that."

Stiles was saved from answering by another old bitty showing up. The first informed her friend who Stiles was and it was all downhill from there. Stiles searched his brain for how to handle the situation politely and like a well-mannered omega should. It was hitting his dad, so he couldn't just take care of the problem how he wanted. A minute later there were four gossiping old ladies sitting at the table across from him, making sure he didn't do his homework.

"You're a handsome boy, why aren't you attached?"

"Or are you? Have you tried the matchmaker?"

"Yes, the sheriff is much too busy to be an escort all the time. He's old enough, he should have a-"

"Where _is_ your escort, Mr. Stilinski?"

Stiles stared at his Spanish book, blank and stuck. He snagged his iced coffee and attempted to drink it, gave up and mangled the straw as a distraction.

"Should we call your father for you?" came the next question. And then another helpful old woman added, "He does know where you are, right?"

Exasperated, Stiles looked over at the table. "Yes. I promise you, he is fine with me being here..."

"We're just worried for your well-being, you understand. Some omegas need a keeper and that's just the way it is," said the woman who had started the whole interruption. "That seems to be the card you've drawn. We have no problem helping the sheriff how we can. Family can be difficult in the best of times."

"We're fine," said Stiles. He had to work to scale back the annoyance. Again he was reminded of the peace he had lost by going to that party. Because he was an omega, everyone could assume they had the right to talk about him and his dad, and Stiles had worked hard to keep that on the sidelines. He had kept to the alpha track, he didn't date, he didn't do the party things. Stiles liked sex, or what little he knew of it anyway, but he kept away from even the publicly accepted _implications_ of a sex-life. All because he didn’t want to give people an excuse to nose in on his life.

Back then, the only thing people said about his poor father and his omega son was "Look at how hard the boy works to keep up with the rest of his class." They shut up when they found out his grades were nearly perfect and he was on the lacrosse team and he didn't skip out on classes as often as they expected an omega to. Back then, Stiles was an oddity but he was good at fitting in with his friends, on the alpha track, so there was nothing to deride him for.

Now he was a failed experiment, he had lost and he had always been on course to lose. Everyone who had been waiting for that to happen suddenly had something to gloat about, to hold over him, that he had never given them the opportunity to do before.

It was sure a good feeling to know that complete strangers had been waiting for him to _fail_ so they could sympathetically lecture him in a coffee shop for being a disappointment to his dad.

Stiles slurped at his empty coffee just to scandalize the women as he started packing up his things. He had left his jeep at the school, a few blocks away. It was well past time to take a walk. The women shushed themselves and stopped talking to include him, but that didn't stop their wagging tongues.

"It's a shame to think how he would have turned out if his mother had survived," one of them said. "He just needs guidance. It can't be easy to learn how to live with only one parent after all."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Stiles said aloud. It was accompanied by the slap of his Spanish book cover closing. The women were once again scandalized with a gasp.

"Are you alright?" one had the balls to ask. Brass freaking cahonas because Stiles _really_ wanted to injure a senior citizen.

Instead, Stiles shoved his stuff in his bag.

"Fine," was all he said. A moment later he was walking out the door, his backpack only half closed. He was in a hurry. He needed to be gone.

Just as he cleared the sidewalk, Stiles saw a sheriff's vehicle circle around the lot looking for a place to park. That was a good enough escape vehicle and he headed for it. Despite his contempt for the women in the coffee shop still watching him through the big windows, there was hesitation when he saw the driver. He was in a foul mood and Jordan was usually _not_. And he was working up a massive crush on his dad's deputy lately which made Stiles all too aware of his moods around the man. The brain-to-mouth filter had to actually _work_ around people he could actually _embarrass_ himself around.

But then again, maybe Jordan's good mood would rub off and Stiles would feel less larcenous.

Stiles let himself into the sheriff's cruiser the second he heard the locks disengage as it parked.

"I will pay for Starbucks if you will drive me the fuck away from this place." It wasn't the most polite greeting and Stiles' brain caught up with his mouth as he saw Jordan's surprised expression. He was ridiculously close up inside the car. Stiles tried to back the conversation up a few seconds. "Hi, by the way."

Jordan stared at him before seeming to remember that he was a cop. "Are you alright? What's happening in the cafe? Do I need to call it in- or do we call Derek for it-"

It took a moment for Stiles to follow that train of thought. Then he grinned a little. "There's nothing to call in. But what, did you, like, deputize Derek for all things supernatural now? If he's your go-to expert, man, I foresee problems-"

"He is my go-to expert," said Jordan. "It's either him or Chris Argent, and I'm not exactly positive a hunter won't kill me, so Derek seems the safer bet."

Stiles nodded and shrugged. "He is, trust me. I just thought your little Supernatural Emergency Response Team idea was funny. The guy doesn't do guns and he can speak more languages than-"

"Stiles." Jordan didn't seem mad but he did seem terminally confused so Stiles stopped rambling.

"Yep?"

"Why are you in the car?"

"Because I didn't like being in the cafe?" Stiles hugged his backpack in his lap and started zipping things shut.

"But you're not hurt?" Jordan asked. Stiles frowned at that. It kind of depended on the definition but Stiles didn't feel like sharing that detail. He didn't try to lie about it though.

"Yeah, I'm fine. But there's a pack of old women in there who decided to inform me I am a failure to my parents because I was at the coffee shop without an escort," he said, tone a little flat despite his best effort at catching Jordan's usual good vibes. "I figured getting in the nice, decorated, fully advertised-as-belonging-to-the-sheriff's department truck would get them to shut up and not spread more shit around town that my dad doesn't need."

That seemed reasoning enough and Jordan started the car again. Stiles felt his arm trembling on his backpack and just hugged it a little tighter.

“Where are we going?” Jordan asked. Stiles shrugged.

“I said I’ll get the tab if you wanted to get a coffee still, since I kind of interrupted that mission,” said Stiles. Jordan glanced at him, attention split awkwardly between him and the road.

“It wouldn’t exactly be proper,” said Jordan. Stiles’ eyes bugged.

“Are you kidding me right now with this?” he blurted. He waved back toward the cafe as the shelved frustration slipped loose. “You too? Come on, man. It’s bad enough I’m getting that crap from Scott and everyone at school and now a bunch of rabid gray-haired mutts at the coffee shop. Come on. You had to chase me down to San Francisco. If anybody knows exactly how many fucks I give about what’s proper by now, it should be you.”

Jordan nodded his head and focused on the traffic they had pulled in to. “I meant the little old ladies,” he said. It almost looked like he was blushing, like the good deputy had just tried to cover for a bad joke and Stiles sunk into his seat with a scoff.

“They can screw it. I offered to pay you back with a coffee, not get married,” said Stiles. Then he gave a humorless laugh and shook his head. “No, on second thought, that would make them happy. We’ll just tell them I did that.”

“Still not proper then,” said Jordan. “The alpha’s supposed to do the asking. On that subject, I mean.”

Stiles realized then that he really wasn’t calming down much. “Thanks for the reminder. Can I just, ya know, put it out there how much I hate my life right now? Because this is shit. I was totally fine a month ago, everybody left me alone. It’s not like I was hiding or anything. My face is my face. The whole omega thing might as well be a neon sign once a month. But they left me alone. Now I can’t even be in a coffee shop by myself.”

“Maybe it was because of your friends,” Jordan offered. “I mean, I never noticed. I just... wasn’t looking for it, I guess. There was always Scott or Derek or Malia or your dad... just someone around all the time. Maybe that’s why you’re having problems now, since you’re on your own more.”

“I was on my own plenty,” said Stiles.

“But there was always someone to run interference,” Jordan said. And he was right; Stiles was really good at staying around his people. Unless he was at home, he was always with someone, until the change in tracks.

“Can’t do anything about it now. Scott won’t even talk to me,” said Stiles. Jordan looked over at him, a frown on his face that Stiles figured was unfair. He stammered and backed off in the frustrated rant. "Sorry, man. I'm losing it. I didn't mean to just... Highjack you and completely unload-"

“What’s wrong with Scott?” came the predictable question. Stiles scrunched his nose, chewed at his lip. He shouldn’t have said anything. It would get back around to Scott through Derek and it would just make things worse. Stiles tried to shrug it off.

“He thinks I’m handling the track wrong. I think he’s wrong. It’s actually pretty much usual for us,” was all he said. He was putting effort into keeping his cool instead of just rant since Jordan didn't want to let it go.

“Except for the part where Scott won’t talk to you.”

“Well, yeah, except that.” Stiles set his jaw and slouched a little, pulling back from a sensitive subject. "But I guess that's usual too, since he never answers his phone. Or his texts. Sometimes."

Jordan frowned at him. "I thought you two were tight. Your dad likes him-"

"Yeah, dad doesn't know everything," said Stiles, bitter.

"What-"

"The problem is that I'm me and he's him, so to Scott, I need an alpha to steer me around, like that's his _responsibility_ ," Stiles interrupted. "Which is total bullshit. I need my friends. Not... That."

Jordan was quiet a moment, thinking it over instead of talking. Stiles took that to be a good thing. Maybe he’d drop it.

“Look, I don’t know what Scott wants out of it, but I’m pretty sure I know your dad wants you to be safe. The stuff you’ve been doing, running around with Scott and everything, that’s a different kind of dangerous and it’s not like your dad knows anything about that, not enough anyway,” said Jordan. He hesitated, looked over at Stiles then to be sure he had his attention. “But we get more calls than we want to from domestic situations with an omega in the middle, from missing kids to adults with a black eye or something. We know _that_ world. That one worries me.”

“It’s not like I want to get stuck in it,” said Stiles. The sincerity of the concern surprised him a little and he didn’t dismiss it. "But I’m not exactly a statistic, either. I was doing fine, before.”

Jordan nodded, glancing from the windshield to Stiles and back.

“You remember what I said about my dad, right?” he asked, random. Stiles jumped on the apparent change in subject like a lifeline.

“What, that he’s an omega?”

Jordan nodded. “He disappeared for a week when I was three. Mom took us with her to some work convention and Dad stayed home, and he was taken from the grocery store. We almost didn’t get him back I guess. It made my mom just... completely paranoid. My dad was worse, really. He still doesn’t really go out unless he’s with people. Always in a group, like what you do.”

"Did," corrected Stiles, thinking it over. He was down a best friend and couldn't even pretend the pack was safe anymore.

"That's my point, Stiles. The past-tense thing bugs me. My dad always has someone. Not because he can't hack it. Omegas on their own aren't safe. They end up somebody's breeder or somebody's good luck charm," said Jordan. It wasn't language Stiles expected from the man and he blinked, surprised. The car was quiet as they pulled into the drive-thru line at the Starbucks. Jordan looked mildly frustrated, like there were things he couldn't put words to. "Just... Don't get so pissed off you can't ask for help, okay? You have friends. Me or Derek if Scott's bailing. Call Lydia, okay? We'll all show up. You don't have to go off on your own."

"I don't want to make you guys take me to the grocery store for the rest of my life, either," replied Stiles. All the same, he was thinking about the cautionary tale. It cast a different light on the way the Omega Track teachers always preached about going places with friends. Maybe the horror stories weren't just statistics. Allison and Jordan both knew omegas who had run into the wrong kind of trouble. That brought things a little closer to home. That Jordan would offer, too, that he had been so quick to let Stiles hitch a ride to get coffee... Stiles couldn't ignore _that_ , either.

"But thanks though. For offering. And stuff," he said. Jordan nodded, quiet but apparently satisfied with the answer. Stiles huffed a sigh and shrugged.

"I kind of figure I'm more likely to get mauled to death by a werewolf though," he reasoned. "I'm pretty good at pissing them off."

"Fine," returned Jordan mildly, "But I want my coffee before that happens. You want anything?"

Stiles smirked as the man waved toward the squawking drive-thru order-speaker by the menu. He shook his head, left Jordan to order his drink. Then he realized he had to dig out his wallet and he started pulling at backpack zippers again. His brain was busy thinking things over but that didn't keep him from grinning to himself about getting away with buying Deputy Parrish a coffee.


	10. Chapter 10

Something was wrong. It was just something on the air. Not the weather, that was fine, just clouds and cold. It was something the kind of wrong that ate at Jordan's patience, crawled up his spine and made him jumpy. The afternoon had been in a strange lull, the only excitement in an hour had been a kid on a bike who ran a stop sign. Deputy Parrish didn't even have paperwork waiting for him at the station. It should have been a good day, by that logic, but the weird tension Jordan felt came with a strange sense of déjà vu. It was something.

Parked where he could see the school and the nearby shopping center, Jordan tapped on the steering wheel. He was almost impatient, very frustrated, waiting for something to happen. None of the calls from dispatch were in his area and officers closer to the incidents handled them. Nobody called for backup. Nobody even called for a tow-truck.

And for whatever reason, a bunch of crows kept drawing Parrish's attention, flapping wings and sparring with each other apparently over possession of a stick. There was probably six of them, they would hop between the ground and the trees on the school's front lawn, probably the bird equivalent of playing. A bigger bird, - a raven? - still black with the sharp beak and bugged eyes, swooped down from a telephone pole while Jordan watched. In the distraction, the larger bird snatched the object of contention from the crows and swept off with it, only to land the next yard over to taunt them. The crows hopped after it.

And that was the most entertaining thing going on in the whole neighborhood.

Jordan grumbled to himself, checked in with dispatch, and settled in to a long watch. Minutes later he saw Peter Hale round a corner, apparently out for a walk around the high school. That irritated but Jordan just set his jaw and let the man walk, so long as he kept moving away. His brand of crazy had no place around kids, even if he could out-smart the doctors at Eichen.

Then, just to prove the man wasn't sane, Peter snagged the passenger door and let himself in Deputy Parrish's patrol car. That was maddening.

"Get out," Jordan said automatically. For some reason his polite, professional side didn't respond well to Peter. He reached for his radio in a subtle threat to call for assistance. Peter just made himself cozy in the chair.

"No need to be rude," Peter replied, testing him. "I'm just here for a chat."

"I'm on duty. I am not here for a chat," said Jordan. Peter nodded toward the school parking lot.

"Yes, because the School Resource Officer can't handle a nice, quiet day on their own, they obviously need an officer parked down the block for supervision," Peter challenged. And it was. It was a challenge. The man called bullshit and stared Jordan right in the face as he did so. "Now you can lie to yourself all you want but I'll hear it before you will."

Jordan shut his mouth and reluctantly dropped his hand from his radio. It was a big enough city that they didn't need to double-up the watch on the high school, there were other places Jordan should have been to wait for something to do. If his boss asked, he would have no explanation for why; Jordan just had a _bad feeling_ and that wasn't _police work._

"Fine. What do you want?" he asked, pulling back on the anger but still giving the man a less than friendly tone. "You don't just socialize. And there is absolutely no reason for you to be around the high school."

"I was in the neighborhood. And it occurred to me that I didn't get to tell you my story about San Francisco," said Peter. For a crazy man suggesting random things, he sounded perfectly rational about it. Jordan stared at him, confused.

"Okay. I'm not sure where this is coming from," Jordan said, carefully choosing his words. "Because, to put it plainly, you and I are not friends. So I don't know why you need to tell me this story. But I guess... Go ahead."

Peter didn't look very amused but he smiled through it. "Well, telling stories is how we become friends. And my nephew is your friend. It doesn't seem like a bad road to be on. You never know when you need friends."

There was nothing Jordan could say to that announcement that would make Peter leave his car any faster, so he didn't. He clenched his jaw and looked out the front window at the raven across the street. "So San Francisco?"

"Yes. San Francisco!" Peter briefly searched his pockets before he produced a folded piece of printer paper. He waved it around a little, proud of himself. "I brought visuals."

Exactly why Peter thought Jordan might want visuals was a mystery that would never be answered. Jordan just wanted the man to leave and waved an impatient hand. Peter kept the paper tucked in his hand like he was saving it and made himself comfortable over in the passenger seat.

"So we were, as I recall, discussing omegas when you were so hastily called off to protect and to serve," said Peter. "I assume I interrupted something about Stiles, because Derek gets rather one-track minded about him. A pack thing, probably, whatever we have left of one anyway. And of course, your father came up. You're surrounded by the things, apparently."

"Things?" echoed Jordan, surprised though he told himself he shouldn't be. He was mostly just angry. Peter shook his head.

"You know what I meant. They're in your life. Me, I've known two. Stiles is a pain the ass, I don't care what my nephew says," said Peter. Jordan huffed, annoyed.

"Okay, are you done yet?"

"Have I talked about San Francisco yet?"

"No. So get to the punchline."

"Pushy." And then the man launched into an obviously rehearsed description to set the scene, of San Francisco in the early nineties, when long hair and baggy pants were in along side cellphones that couldn’t be folded into a pocket. Peter had just graduated high school, had road tripped to the Bay Area with some friends and fellow graduates who all looked more legal than they really were. Nobody gave them too much trouble when they wandered into a bar one friday night. It was the dark ages, he explained, when photo IDs were more easily faked and nobody actually cared who walked into a bar.

“So I’m there for five minutes and this beautiful blonde walks in and just lays claim. I wouldn’t have said no even if I had seen her coming over. Short and curves and-” Peter paused his storytelling because he had started motioning with his hands and noticed Jordan looking away as the pantomime got to the woman’s breasts. Jeezus but it was awkward. Jordan actually considered taking his rifle and keys and walking away from the car until Peter left. The man got back on track. “Anyway. Pretty. Hungry little minx. I was ready to follow her where- _ever_ -”

“Oh my god. Honestly?” Jordan blurted. Peter just waved him down and carried on.

“So she leads me to this nice corner table and I follow of course and of all things, I see she’s there with another guy. He’s my age, she’s my age, they’re what, maybe nineteen at this time. And here’s the thing. I didn’t notice it until I saw this guy. They’re both wearing wedding rings,” said Peter. He had quieted down, a little conspiratorial, like he still couldn’t believe what he was saying, twenty years later. By then, though, Jordan had done the math without meaning to and he had started to really wonder why an absolute stranger was sharing a story about a night out at the bar. It could go nowhere Jordan wanted to hear about, all math aside, but the man was being particular with his numbers.

“Now I’m not the most particular about certain things. The basics are the basics. I’m good to go,” said Peter, providing Jordan with more information than he ever wanted to know. “Then this pretty little alpha female decides to tell me she has a list of things to do with three that can’t be done with two, and I sign on. Her husband’s into the idea and we’re all stupid kids. And he’s an omega and I always wanted to try it with one of them. _And_ they had a hotel around the corner. It was all so... _easy_.”

Unfortunately by that point, Peter had drawn Jordan’s attention. He wasn’t happy about having to listen but now he sensed the man was going somewhere with the whole thing. “So that’s it, story’s done now and I can go back to work?”

“Not really. There’s apparently an epilogue,” said Peter. Jordan watched distrustfully as Peter unfolded the paper a little in a hint and handed it across the center console of the car for him to investigate for himself. “Imagine my surprise finding a photo of my energetic partners of that evening on the internet some twenty years later. And they had a little boy somewhere along the way who doesn’t quite match his brother. Modern technology these days is fun, but it doesn’t answer all of my questions.”

The heavy hinting and ominous implications made sense as Jordan stared down at a print-out of a photo he had seen hundreds of times. He had it on his facebook page, and that was locked to friends he actually knew and family. He didn’t use it much but he had a big family and they did, photos going up all over each others’ walls. Jordan looked up at Peter, sour and mildly angry. “How did you get this?”

Peter shrugged. “I know Derek’s laptop password. It’s not as hard as he thinks it is, reading his mind sometimes.”

Jordan looked back to the picture, not quite wrapping his mind around what Peter was suggesting. He stared at his parents’ faces on the page, his dad laughing at something as if the person behind the camera had snuck up on them. His dad held Jordan in his arms and his mom had his brother on her back like a monkey. Both Jordan and his brother were around five years old in the photo, one blonde like his mom and the other darker haired like neither of the two adults. It was something Jordan had noticed hundreds of times in his lifetime, and it had never bothered him because he had always known he was his dad’s kid. But now he was worried about the differences. Jordan Parrish looked up at Peter Hale, jaw set and expression one of slow anger.

“I’d like a word with your father,” Peter told him. He was outright staring, completely impervious to the deputy’s anger.

“Get out of the car,” Jordan ordered, not about to be ignored about it either. Peter watched him, eyes narrowed and head tilted in curiosity. Jordan wanted to hit the smug bastard across the face but instead he reached across the car, around Peter to shove open the passenger door. “I said, _out_.”

Then the man obliged and shut the door carefully behind him. Parrish watched him leave and then sat behind the wheel of his cruiser, white knuckled fist against the steering wheel not really a distraction from the questions burning in his mind. Across the street at the school, the crows chased the raven off without his prize, the crowd dispersed, and the birds were no help at all. The paper in Jordan’s hand shook, the noise edging on his last nerve, so he dropped it on the seat. He stared at it a moment before he realized that the page had started to char where his hand had touched it and the brown was slowly creeping out in all directions. The damn thing was on fire, tiny lines of orange eating the page in advance of the brown. Jordan blinked at it, then looked at his hand, seeing the slightest charred residue on his skin at his fingertips. He swore out loud a few times and reached out to crumple the paper and smudge out the burn before it turned into a flame. When it was out, he turned on the engine and pulled out into the street, driving to get away from something unwanted.

Jordan didn’t know what the hell was going on with his life, but he didn’t want Peter Hale anywhere near it.

 

***

 

Things had been a little dicey for the handful of omegas in the alpha track since Stiles left. He knew that. Michael, the one with the kid, had politely threatened to rearrange his face for it. The guy didn’t really appreciate being cornered by the random omegaist alpha and shoved around. There were four others in Stiles’ year and, as seniors, they had the whole school thing figured out and knew what to do with the upstarts and the problem-children of younger years. They had been in a few fights because of it all. Stiles had been in about one a week since he got back from being suspended, so it wasn’t like he wasn’t paying the piper, but he still got hassled from both sides because of everything. He generally avoided all of his old haunting grounds at the school just to avoid running into the alphas and their bullshit in all its various forms. It really wasn’t hard to do since he didn’t have to use his locker at all any more. And he was kicked off the lacrosse team and PE wasn’t a part of his schedule, so that meant no locker room. Ever. It was really the best plan.

Except Stiles was sick of worrying about Scott. His supposed best friend hadn’t called him in actual days, made no move to fix the fight. Since Stiles was the bigger human-being apparently, he wanted to get it sorted out. Scott had always been terrible about picking up the phone when somebody called him, but he always called them back if they left him a voicemail. Or twelve. Whatever. Now Scott didn’t even log on to Skype. His best friend was very actively avoiding him. Which meant if Stiles wanted to clear anything up, he had to start braving the main corridors of the campus and hunting for Scott after school before he went to practice. Scott was still the captain of the lacrosse team, so he would show up, and then Stiles would pounce on him. Demand answers. Probably apologize for things that weren’t his fault because that had become his default-setting just to survive Mrs. Malcolm and Mr. Vecchio's lectures about the evil consequences of an omega who didn’t know their proper place. No matter how it went down, he was talking to Scott before he left the locker room, even if he had to sit there all through practice.

Stiles’ simple, logical plan was tossed out the window by the mere lack of _Scott_ in the locker room. There weren’t any werewolves in the locker room at all. (That was probably just as well because Isaac and him hadn’t been getting along so well since the party anyway.) Scott’s locker was shut and locked (Stiles’ old locker hung open beside it, which was depressing) so it looked like he had missed the team. His options then were to stick to his determination to corner his friend, wait at the lockers like some pitiful loyal omega, or give up and go home because he had other things to do with his life than wait on Scott. There was a date he was supposed to go on that night that he could probably have prepared for, but Stiles was more interested in not showing up to that than he was a blind-date.

He sat on the bench and waited nearly five minutes. Then he gave up because he only had an hour to get to the station to meet Derek for his class at the community college and he knew better than to assume coach would let anybody out of practice soon enough. Stiles had other things to do with his life than wait on Scott.

He scrawled out “Call me, jerk” on a scrap of notebook paper and shoved it in Scott’s locker. Then he headed back out toward the parking lot. Just as he rounded the corner into the school halls, Stiles collided with someone about his height, a little taller. It was an honest mistake on both their parts, but the other guy had a pack of friends following him. Stiles started to apologize - it was the polite thing to do and he was supposed to have manners at school, he’d be dead if Malcolm had spies - but the words died quickly when he was shoved by one of the group.

“Look, an omega bitch out in the wild. What are you doing over on this side?” the kid who had shoved him wanted to know. He was one of the followers of the kid Stiles had run in to, the quickest to respond to the incident because he wasn’t actually involved in it. And he apparently knew Stiles' face even if Stiles didn't know his.

"I was looking for a friend of mine. Scott-"

"What's with you and lacrosse captains?" asked someone else. There were six of them and one of Stiles and they all found the question funnier than he did. He recognized the jersey one of them wore; they were basketball jocks. Another look around the group confirmed it, since Harrison the Bad Match lurked quietly half hidden behind one of his friends, in his jersey too. Since the others had formed an effective blockade to keep Stiles from getting back into the locker room or out into the main hall, he looked to Harrison.

"Call off your dogs, man," he said. It wasn't a question or a request at all, just an appeal to the guy who had at least for a little while not been an ass at dinner. The effort got him shoved at again.

"Hey! Nobody said you could talk to him," the new kid ordered, in Stiles' face. Stiles glared at him.

"I didn't ask _nobody_. I was talking to him," he replied. "So back off."

Even though he knew better, he shoved back. And suddenly three guys were playing point guard and Stiles ducked away between them. He broke for the hall in a sprint and had most of Harrison's friends on his heels. Stiles knew better than to run. He had learned with hunters that running only made them chase and it was no different with arrogant basketball players. It was like a challenge and bullies would always rise to that kind of bait.

The problem was that Stiles didn't really want a fight, because fighting was frowned upon in the new track he couldn't afford to get kicked out of, which meant running. He snagged the stairs, looking to put whatever distance he could between them, and hid in the stairwell. When he heard the doors open above him, he went back to running. His next brilliant idea was to aim for the Omega Track wing and the easiest way there was the basement route, under the school. So he took the chance and let himself out into the narrower halls of the sublevel, with all the storage rooms and the equipment rooms and the boiler room. So many places to hide on that level. He just had to get ahead of them enough to get out of sight first. That wasn't so likely with six guys chasing him.

Stiles slowed to catch the door at the end of the hall, just two flights back up to the Omega wing where he belonged, and someone slammed into him. It was a full body check against the boards and Stiles didn't have a helmet; his head bounced off the hollow metal door and the other guy's shoulder dug into his spine enough to hurt. Dazed, Stiles missed the door handle as he was pulled away from it, into the middle of the hall and surrounded by jerks. Then someone was in his face, hands fisted in his shirt collar to make him look at him.

"You think you're better than everyone, huh?" the kid demanded. "Some stupid omega who knows everything and can just skip tracks. Pretend to be an alpha, screw with everyone so we have to play along. You wanna be both? Best of both worlds and too good for somebody like Hal? Is it because he's not a captain, that it?"

Stiles blinked at the anger he saw on the kid's face. "Who the hell is Hal?"

Somebody behind him punched him in the back of the ribs for that even as the guy in his face gave him another shake. Stiles kicked at his shin and shoved into him, trying to get loose. Somebody caught him around the shoulders and then in a headlock, pulled him backwards and off balance. His attention went quickly into breaking the hold around his neck but all he managed was a hand up to keep from getting strangled.

"Hal! You want him? We caught your omega for you," the guy who had been in Stiles' face announced. The headlock shifted just enough to drag Stiles around to face down the hall and he saw Harrison had followed the chase. He had been slower than the others but he still showed up. Half out of breath, all Stiles could do was stare at the guy. He had done that at dinner, too, watched Harrison's face light up with laughter and Stiles remembered being surprised once when he realized the guy wanted him. That didn't help now, with six guys around him with actual violent intent. He tried to elbow the guy behind him in the stomach and the arm around his neck tightened, so he angled to try to get away. Someone else caught his arm and pinned it behind him, took his backpack from him and kept him still. He was stuck between the guy holding him by the neck and the guy twisting his arm. It was scary but still not quite the same as facing down a werewolf or a psycho with a gun. Stiles was mostly just pissed off. And stuck. _Very_ pissed off.

One of Harrison's teammates slapped him on the shoulder, a friendly encouraging shove toward Stiles. He still stared, his eyes running along Stiles' body at the weird, off balance and exposed angle he was held in by Harrison's two teammates.

"Let him go," Harrison said. It wasn't what was expected and it took a moment for the request - not a demand - to be complied with. Stiles was shoved away, somebody's foot catching his ankle at the same time to trip him. He stumbled and barely caught himself, landing on his knees. Before he could get up again, Harrison crouched in front of him.

"See, I was nice to you," Harrison said. "We got along good. I had to pay for your dinner and you just left."

"Yeah, I wonder why," said Stiles. He glanced around at the basketball players standing guard.

"Because I'm not a captain, right?" said Harrison. "That is the shitty thing here. You really do think you're better than me because you got it on with freakin' Jackson Whittemore."'

"No, I think you and your friends are shit because you think I owe you something," Stiles returned. Harrison's expression darkened.

"Yes you do."

"Why, because it's my job?"

"No, because I bought you dinner. Fifty bucks. Gone." Harrison actually looked angry about the fifty bucks. Stiles laughed in his face.

He stopped laughing when Harrison raised a hand and touched the spot on his forehead where he had slammed into the door. It might have been meant to be careful, for all of two seconds before the guy's fingers caught into Stiles' hair. He didn't yank but if Stiles moved it would have been painful. It was no surprise when Harrison used his leverage to keep Stiles still and leaned in for the kiss. The guys standing guard around them gave whoops and cheers for their friend, putting the omega in his proper place.

Except it worked for Stiles because he had seen it coming. He owed the guy fifty bucks, supposedly, so he could work with that. He kissed the guy who had taken him to dinner.

Then he bit him.

To save face with his buddies, Harrison didn't react. They didn't know about the challenge and to keep them from finding out, all he could do was tighten his hold on Stiles' hair. It was a negotiation of sorts, just personal, between the two of them. Stiles let go of Harrison's tongue when the guy let go of his hair. Harrison backed off, glaring and angry, and Stiles grinned at him, shrugged.

"Fifty bucks," he said, quiet.

All the same, Stiles breathed easier when Harrison stood up and stepped back.

"He wasn't worth it," said Harrison then. "Whittemore was just slumming it. He should have stuck with his girlfriend."

There was some dry laughter from the others. Then someone asked, "Well is she available?" and Stiles got angry again. He shoved up to his feet to actually fight and someone knocked him in the head with his own backpack. It tangled more than it hurt but it was enough to throw him off. There was more laughter and somebody tripped him again, shoved him hard into the wall. Stiles was very aware of the pain in his head. It echoed when he moved and he decided then not to move if he could help it. He set his back to the wall he had been shoved into and watched the other students around him.

"We're gonna be late for practice," Harrison pointed out. He was so over his little omega date, Stiles could literally still taste it. He waved a hand in welcome invitation for them to leave.

"I'll see my own way out," he added quietly. "Go the hell away."

"Right," said Harrison's friend. The one who had earlier caught Stiles in a headlock reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder. "And let some little omega bitch run to tattle? I don't think so."

Harrison trailed behind them as the group escorted Stiles down to the boiler room. Very imaginative group, the Beacon Hills basketball team. Their new brilliant idea was the storage cage in the boiler room. Stiles didn't even care; he had a cell phone in his pocket and he'd call for backup when the assholes left. As long as they left, that was Stiles' only agenda. That and getting his head to stop ringing, because _that_ would be awesome.

Harrison's friends didn't manhandle the fragile omega more than just enough to shove him in the box with the locking door. They joked about how the omega couldn't even handle the locker rooms anymore, how the Omega Track had made Stiles weak even though he had tried to fake it on the varsity lacrosse team. Or maybe lacrosse was just for weaklings in the first place if an omega could ride the bench _and_ the captain, and that joke got a big laugh.

Stiles just tried to ignore them. They weren't talking about him anyway, building up some random omega in their own heads and talking shit to try to get to him. Nobody once said his name the whole time since he had run into them outside the locker room, just talked about the poor, arrogant little omega. Stiles' head hurt, the jerks were leaving, so he let them talk.

When they were bored enough by their own bad jokes, they hung the key well out of Stiles' reach on the far wall for him to stare at. Stiles didn't care, he was glad to have a locked gate between him and his attackers. He sunk down to lean against the wall opposite the gate and put his aching head in his hands. Harrison and his friends left, congratulating themselves for putting the omega in his place, and Stiles waited for the main door to shut behind them. Then he checked his pocket for his phone.

"Oh holy hell," he said as he stared at the phone in his hand.

The screen had cracked and splintered in the fight. It tried to light up when he turned it on, but the display wouldn't activate. _Perfect_. Stiles shoved it back in his pocket. He had food and a water bottle in his pack but that didn’t do him much good. Someone would check the basement eventually. He really hated his life in the meantime.


	11. Chapter 11

After the near altercation with Peter Hale in the car, Parrish went back to the stationhouse. He wasn’t going to risk that happening again. It ruined every part of his otherwise peaceful day. Worse was the incessant urge to go to the sheriff and ask what he should do. Sheriff Stilinski knew the Hales better, he knew of the family and their circumstances. All Jordan knew about any of them was what little Derek would share - which mostly related to the teenagers they knew in common, more than himself - and that Peter Hale was a psychopath and murderer. None of that was good news, aside from the small hope provided by the fact that psychopaths would lie without a second thought and that could negate every single one of Jordan’s worries. He could solve it by calling his father, going to an actually trustworthy source, but then what would he do if his father told him it was true? Finding out that he had been lied to his whole life would not fix the day at all. But Jordan was stubborn and he refused to take time off work because of Peter Hale.

Instead, he sat at his desk, stared at paperwork he was supposed to actually do something about. He had a super productive afternoon. As long as doing nothing but glaring at a computer screen counted as productive. Considering how badly he wanted to break something, and considering the fact that the computer screen, mouse, and keyboard all lived to see six PM, Jordan counted it as productive. He stopped work entirely when he saw Derek Hale walk in. He could talk to Derek about it. Derek would maybe know more than the sheriff. He looked like a man on a mission, so Jordan didn’t get in his way, but he stood up to follow after him.

“Hey, when you’ve got a minute-” he began. Derek looked over at him.

“I don’t know yet,” he said. Jordan wasn’t sure how to take that but Derek didn’t give him a chance. “Have you seen Stiles?”

“What do you mean, have I seen- Stiles was supposed to be with you at the college for the past two hours-” Jordan cut himself off, too easily set to brawl because of Peter. Now Stiles was MIA and that did nothing for his calm. Neither would looking too closely as to why that was or why he had the guy’s schedule apparently memorized. Derek didn’t seem to read too much into it and just nodded.

“He was supposed to. But he didn’t meet me at the school, or here. He didn’t show up at his house or the loft. And he hasn’t been answering texts,” Derek told him. He kept it quiet then nodded toward the sheriff’s door. “And I _know_ something’s wrong but I’m not going to try to explain that to his dad. We just... need to find him.”

Jordan didn’t need this added to his day. He went right to the sheriff’s office door and walked in, he didn’t even bother to knock. His boss thankfully wasn’t on the phone and didn’t give too much hell for the rude entrance, just a curious eyebrow-lift.

“What’s up?”

“Stiles didn’t show up for class,” said Jordan. He nodded toward Derek to show which class he meant. “Can you find his phone, Sheriff?”

Derek looked like he wanted to say something but he didn’t, just stood beside Jordan and waited, arms crossed and jaw set. Jordan took a deep breath in and out to cool an already lit temper. Meanwhile, the sheriff ignored them in favor of checking his phone app for sign of his son’s location.

“He’s not showing up at all,” the sheriff said after a moment. He slapped at the phone and Jordan nearly had a heart attack. The sheriff was handing it to him before Jordan had the slightest chance to steal it from him. He double checked the settings and then checked them again but Stiles’ phone signal wasn’t showing up on the map. Derek shook his head.

“I’ve been checking it all afternoon. I thought he had his phone off. But nobody’s seen him, he’s not answering texts or calls...” he said. Sheriff Stilinski stood up and started gathering things to leave.

“Where did you look? Did you find the jeep? I need to get that damn jeep it’s own cell phone,” the sheriff muttered.

“The jeep’s at the school,” said Derek. “But I checked with Lydia and Allison. They hadn’t seen him.”

“What about the boys?” asked Sheriff Stilinski. “Malia?”

“Scott hasn’t seen him?” added Jordan.

“The boys have been in lacrosse practice all afternoon. Kira, too. Malia had a soccer game. I checked the field and Stiles wasn’t out there. Scott said he hadn’t shown up,” said Derek. He started ticking off the places he had checked again to be sure he hadn’t missed anything. The sheriff just shook his head and said he didn’t have any other ideas of where to start looking.

Something got stuck as he tried to think it over and Jordan couldn’t get around it. He looked from Derek to the sheriff and back. “If he and Scott aren’t talking, who would he spend time at school with? Is there anyone from the omega track-”

“What do you mean, they aren’t talking?” said the sheriff. Derek winced and took a step back to make sure he wasn’t brought into it. Jordan had apparently let out a secret that Stiles was going to disapprove of. It was too late to back off the track now.

“He mentioned it this week. Scott is having problems with how Stiles is handling the omega track and they had a fight about it,” he said. “He said Scott and Lydia were fighting about it, too now.”

The sheriff went visibly paler. “Jeezus, every time I asked the kid how it was going... _every_ time...”

“He’s having problems,” Derek allowed. “But he says he’s got it handled.”

“Can I kill him?” The sheriff was obviously at a loss, worried and facing a bigger disadvantage than he had previously thought. Jordan realized Stiles and his secrets weren’t doing anyone any favors.

“Sir, did he tell you about the hunters in San Francisco?” he asked, cautious but not about to back down. From the look on Derek’s face, he had just walked into another well-kept secret. The sheriff probably had no clue and needed to know more. Jordan couldn’t ignore the potential connection in favor of Stiles’ trust when the only apparent alternative was Stiles’ safety. He didn’t know much, but he told what he knew, and the sheriff didn’t like it.

“We start at the jeep,” he said. “Then the omega track teachers better have some answers.”

“School’s been out four hours,” Jordan pointed out. The sheriff shook his head.

“The principal’s got a cell phone. And if he doesn’t answer his phone either then aliens had better be involved or I’ll have him arrested,” the man said. He had his phone back and was dialing numbers from the address book by the time he hit the office door. “Him and a particular lawyer I could mention, both.”

Neither Jordan nor Derek argued the plan as they followed the sheriff out. Jordan stopped at his desk long enough to get the things he usually kept locked in his desk at work and wasn’t far behind at the lobby doors as the sheriff was on the phone with the station dispatcher to pull in a few units for a search of the high school.

There was a bit of a traffic jam at the door out to the parking lot and the sheriff stepped aside to let the visitor pass by.

"Jordan?" The voice caught his attention because otherwise Jordan was focused on the sheriff, on finding Stiles, more than on the daily visitors wandering in and out.

But he stopped cold in his tracks when his dad said his name.

"Dad- what-" he stuttered and stammered and his dad grinned at it, thinking the surprise was a good thing.

"I got a phone call yesterday about you," his dad said. He must have caught on to the mood of both Jordan and the two who had stopped to wait for him. "But it looks like it'll wait. You go-"

"Look, Dad, there's some trouble. It could be a while, but... Can you maybe go home?"

"Not even happening now," he said. "I'll wait here."

Jordan started to accept that but then the doors opened again for another visitor. Peter Hale.

"Oh, shit," he heard his dad say under his breath. Peter noticed, as did Derek. They didn't have time for this.

"No, Dad, don't say that," said Jordan.

"You got this?" The sheriff asked Jordan, impatient.

"No," said Jordan. It wasn't what he had meant to say but there it was. He looked over at the stare-down happening between his dad and Peter and he latched onto his dad's arm. "We'll deal with it on the way."

The sheriff didn't argue, no fan of Peter, and held the door for Jordan. Derek didn't know Jordan's dad but, like the sheriff, he seemed to trust Jordan over Peter. He stayed back to tell his uncle to go home.

"Not until I've had a few words with JT," Peter told him.

"Now isn't the time, alright? Just go home," argued Derek as they followed Jordan and his dad and the sheriff.

"Now is a wonderful time," replied Peter. He was very determined about following them out and nearly tried to climb into the sheriff's cruiser. Derek held him back. Jordan made sure his dad was the only one in the back seat of the SUV before he got behind the wheel. Derek promised to meet them at the school but Jordan didn't promise not to kill Peter. He tried to focus on driving away, because they needed to find Stiles more than he needed to ask his dad if the story was true.

"What was that about?" He heard the sheriff ask his dad. "I assume you're the JT that Hale wants to talk to?"

"I am," Jordan's dad said from the back. "And that's a long story for another time."

Jordan wasn't sure if he wanted to be angry or maybe actually cry from something that hurt like physical pain. Instead he drove. It would wait until after he found Stiles.

 

***

 

It felt like hours before the door opening woke Stiles. His head still hurt and the knot on his forehead felt like it had swollen up half his face. Sleeping was the last thing he should have been doing but it was hot and muggy in the room and he literally had nothing to keep himself awake with. But the quiet screech of the heavy door brought him around again and he used the wall of the cage behind him to climb back up to his feet. He moved to the gate, squinting and looking past the cage in search for potential saviors. The face that came into view first wasn't familiar but it at least wasn't somebody from the basketball team.

"Hey!" Stiles called out. "Over here! Could you help me out?"

The stranger didn't seem at all surprised to find someone in the room, let alone the storage cage. Stiles backed off from the gate as four others trailed behind the first, none of their faces familiar and none of them looking like they belonged at a high school in the first place. The baton in the first man's hand sparked as it powered up, which narrowed down the list of potential problems: they were hunters.

"He was right. You are a pretty one, look at those eyes and the pretty pink cheeks," the man said. It was an idle observation as he stopped at the gate, studying Stiles like he was a piece of livestock at auction. Stiles kept to the back of the storage cage, feeling trapped and close to panic. He tried to focus on breathing rather than deal with them, his brain already offering up scenario after scenario of what his options were and where they would lead to. He didn't have many options and none of them went anywhere good. He didn't let the men out of his sight however, just angled behind a shelf and a stack of paper boxes.

"So that's how you're going to be, huh?" came the taunt. One of the men started around the outside of the cage, back behind it to effectively chase Stiles out of his hiding spot against the cage mesh. He didn't want to stand where they could see him but he wanted even less to stand where they could touch him.

"Don't worry little one. We're just here to get you out of there," said the man at the gate. He pulled out his cell phone and waved it. "I just have to send a text real quick-like and we can head on out."

"I'm good. Hanging out. Waiting for the janitor," said Stiles. The man on the outside held up the phone and pressed it against the cage, lens clear of the metal. There was the fake sound of the shutter that said he had just taken a picture. A little late, Stiles backed off again.

"Just business, nothing weird, kid," the man said. It did nothing to make him feel any better. "So where'd the hoodlums hide the key from you, huh? Need the key to get you out."

"The janitor has the keys. I'll wait for him," said Stiles. The hunter with the baton touched the charged end to the cage and Stiles jumped as the shock of electricity danced along the metal like it was a faraday cage. Nothing inside was hurt and the charge died off. He stayed quiet.

“Just shoot it, we can go,” said the hunter who had crept around the back of the cage. Stiles tried to split his attention but the guy at the gate won out mostly because Stiles wanted the gate to stay closed.

“I’d rather not. It could miss and hit things the omega holds dear,” said the man at the gate. He tucked his phone in his pocket and crossed his arms, staring at Stiles. “So? Where’s the key?”

“If I could get the key, I would have been gone,” Stiles pointed out. “So thanks for wasting the time but I’ll just hang out.”

“Errrr wrong answer,” the man said. He looked around and picked up the backpack Harrison’s friends had kindly left for Stiles, however out of reach and worthless it was. “Maybe it’s in here, huh?”

Stiles didn’t say anything as his bag was dragged into. He didn’t have anything really in there because of the change in tracks. He had his accounting textbook, the heavy thing quickly tossed away. The notebook that he never used was next, blank pages flapping around and lying open on the floor. A paper he had written, -comparing baby-diaper brands because he absolutely hated the kind the school used for the child care center and thought they needed a wake-up call,- got dragged out, laughed at, and tossed on the floor too. That was a little annoying because he had actually worked at the paper, it was like two hours of his life. But he didn’t point that out. The hunter upended the bag and shook out the inside pockets. He found house keys and car keys and that worried Stiles a bit but he determined anything with keychains wasn’t the key to the cage. It was kind of nerve wracking, waiting for the man to turn around and see the key hanging from the shelf on the wall. The door up to the rest of the school never opened. It was just him and hunters who were going to get pissed off soon.

The bag was dumped on the floor, contents emptied in a messy pile, and the hunter looked to Stiles. “Where is it? In ten seconds I take our chances shooting the lock.”

Stiles looked from face to face, finally determining the men to be that dim. It meant better odds for him to get out once he was upstairs. He pointed at the keys. “Seriously? Right there.”

The men looked where he directed and discovered the simple key on the simple tab keyfob that looked much more like it belonged to the lock they were vexed by. He backed off from the gate, startled by the sudden existence of guns in his life as the men remembered suddenly they were armed once the gate was unlocked. He was told to empty his pockets and complied because it kept the hunters away from him, showing them the broken phone and the wallet he still had on him. They laughed at the broken phone and didn’t take anything from him, just beckoned him out and somebody patted him on the head when he complied. He tried to step out of reach and got caught by the back of the neck.

“Now here’s how we’re gonna do this-” the man said, tugging Stiles close enough to sling an arm over his shoulders. Stiles shook his head.

“You’ve got this really planned out I’m sure, but Scott’s not going to show up for anything,” he said. “And I know a few hunters who will be pissed-”

“Who’s Scott?” the hunter asked. He seemed amused, pinched Stiles’ cheek like he was four. “Aww, you’ve got a boyfriend, right?”

“Oh my god,” muttered Stiles, shrugging away from the creepy stranger-touch that was just getting worse. It walked him into the silenced muzzle of a gun held by one of the other hunters.

“If you wanted to write him a good bye, you missed your window,” the gunman said. Stiles stared at the gun pointed between his eyebrows. He could smell the oil easily enough in the muggy room and it did a very effective job at clearing his mind of anything useful. “So like he was saying. You’re gonna be quiet. And we’re gonna take a walk. If you argue or make a scene, it’s not like a little damage will hurt my bottom line any.”

“And we can always talk to Scott later,” his friend added. “I’m sure his nose’ll lead us right to you if you want to make it interesting.”

Stiles jumped when the one in his space clapped both hands on his shoulders and gave a quick, hard massage. His head hurt already and his hands had been shaking for hours. Stiles had used up what fight he had ready when he had run from Harrison and the basketball jerks. It hadn’t come back curled up on the cold floor of the boiler room and he flat out didn’t know what to do with hunters and their guns when they were aimed at him with no werewolves around. He had no back-up plan. His pack wasn’t even in shouting range, even if there was anything they could have done. And Scott was probably hours gone, even if Stiles thought he could have expected help from that corner. But there was literally nothing Stiles could do buried under the school in the basement. He gave a slight nod that he understood. It got his aching head patted again and the touchy stranger wrapped him in a hug from behind, like they were friends playing around, and made him walk toward the door to the basement stairs. Stiles elbowed at the space invasion and the man caught his hands, tucked them into the pockets of Stiles’ hoodie closed in his own. He hung over Stiles’ shoulder and hugged him.

“Just settle down, you’ll do fine,” the man said, right up near his ear. That did nothing to help Stiles feel better but he realized he wasn’t panicked. He was mentally stuck, like thinking through sludge, but he wasn’t panicked. His hands still shook and the man held on to them tighter. He seemed to be amused by it. “No wonder the boys got you down here, little one. Had a rough few days, hmm?”

That made no sense and Stiles meant to shake his head but found himself nodding. The man let him loose to climb the stairs but he kept hold of Stiles’ hand in his pocket. Stiles felt his new unwanted friend watching him and focused on the stairs, tugged ineffectively at his hand a few times to no avail. The man looked back between them at the others following them out, said something about this one being already half through the draw -something else that made no sense - and kept in Stiles’ space. Stiles just looked toward the upper halls, hoped for civilization and witnesses and nosey Omega-Track-teachers.

But the halls were mostly empty when they got to the ground level. It was dark out already. They made it to the parking lot without anyone paying much attention to them. Stiles had a stranger hugging him for most of the walk, in his space, all but leashed to him. He couldn’t shake the human leach. They got to a truck in the parking lot with Stiles wrapped in another hug from behind, the man’s hands in his pockets wrapped around his own again.

It was a way of keeping Stiles still when the other hunter jabbed a needle into his neck, and someone to help guide him into the truck before he fell on his face from the sudden overwhelming exhaustion.

 

***

 

Somehow Derek beat the marked sheriff’s vehicle to the high school. He met them in the lot, more frustrated than impatient. As he jumped from the SUV to go around to meet Derek, Jordan noticed Peter Hale getting out of a car not far off. He looked to Derek, openly annoyed.

“Make him leave,” he said. Derek scoffed at the order.

“Yeah, great idea. Be my guest, Deputy,” he said, extra emphasis on Jordan’s title of authority over the pain-in-the-ass nobody wanted around.

“It’s a free country, this is public property, I’ll leave when I want,” said Peter as he joined them. “So what are we doing here?”

Somehow ignoring his uncle, Derek kept his attention on the sheriff. “Scott called. He said Stiles left him a note in his locker, and he caught a scent-”

The topic was very close to subjects Jordan didn’t want to have to explain to his dad so he caught Derek’s arm to interrupt him. “Fine, where is he?”

“He said to meet him in the basement level,” Derek said. The sheriff started moving, turning back only to point at Peter.

“You stay out here. I don’t want to deal with you today,” he ordered. Jordan backed it up with a glare and herded his dad protectively away from Peter and toward the school. Not one to take a hint, Peter followed after the group.

“What happened to Stiles?” Peter asked.

“We’re trying to figure that out,” said Derek. “So just shut up if you won’t listen.”

Peter behaved but he made sure to keep up. Jordan glared at him whenever he walked too close. His dad caught on and gave him one of his disapproving looks.

“I’m sure he just wants to help,” JT said, earning a derisive laugh from his son. Jordan shook his head.

“That’s the last thing that man wants to do,” he said. “It’s not in his nature.”

“I think it’s safe to say you don’t know my nature as well as you think you do,” said Peter. “So maybe you should shut up and listen to your father.”

Too wound up by the situation and Peter’s unwanted involvement in it, Jordan very nearly went after the man right there in the school hallway. JT held him back and tried to distract him.

“Who’s Stiles?” he asked. “I’m here so how can I help?”

“Stiles is the sheriff’s son,” said Jordan, nodding at his boss who was pacing well ahead with Derek. “Remember when I told you I had to run to the Bay to help the sheriff track a kid? He’s a senior and the school just forced him onto the omega track this semester. He’s had a few problems-”

“Well, it’s not like the boy helped himself by putting it off this long,” Peter interrupted. “Denying his own identity like that wasn’t healthy.”

“ _Now_ I’m pretty sure you’re not helping,” said JT at that point and Jordan nodded.

“Really?” Peter was quiet but that didn’t mean he toned down on the casual sarcasm. “Can we take a moment to discuss my contributions and overall helpfulness to life as you know it, JT? Or should we put that off until we find the _sheriff’s_ son?”

It was the worst possible kind of confirmation as Jordan realized his dad had stopped walking to instead stare at Peter. He knew his dad, he knew when the man was angry and he knew when he was just in a mood. All Jordan saw on his dad’s face was surprise. He went back and caught at his dad’s jacket again.

“No. Not right now. I want to find Stiles first, then I’ll deal with the two of you,” he said. He turned a glare on Peter. “I don’t care who you are, if you get in the way again, I will put you down like a rabid dog. You can’t recover from everything.”

The threat was sincere and it gained him a little respect but not enough for Jordan to trust the man. When Peter nodded, he pointed down the hall in a hint for Peter to follow after Derek and the sheriff, and Jordan held his dad back so he walked ahead of them. His father stared at him in open shock. Jordan felt a little guilty but not much.

“I do not appreciate this right now,” he said, quiet.

“Fair to say this wasn’t on my agenda for the day,” his dad agreed. But they didn’t say anything else until they caught up to the others at the stairwell to the basement. Scott and Liam and Kira waited for them, even Lydia. She met Jordan’s eyes and he could tell she was worried, equal parts angry.

“What’s going on?” he asked her. Lydia shook her head and deferred the answer to Scott and Derek. They were discussing a piece of paper Scott said he had found in his locker, and he said it was from Stiles. Then they were firmly in the territory of werewolf business and Jordan regretted having dragged his dad along because he wasn’t sure how he was going to explain any of it to JT.

“I’m not sure I can track it, Derek,” said Scott. “There’s too many different scents. I picked up on Stiles in a few places but it’s all mixed up with everyone else. And the note doesn’t smell right. It’s like he’s sick or something.”

“Sick?” asked the sheriff. “You think Stiles is sick?”

Scott shook his head. “Not like a cold or something. It didn’t smell right, but I didn’t recognize it.”

“Stress?” suggested Jordan. Holding the paper Scott had given him to check, Derek shook his head.

“No. It’s something else but I don’t know it,” said Derek. “It’s been like this for two weeks. He had the fight with Scott and then it just got more drastic after Peter kicked him out of the loft.”

“I didn’t kick him out,” Peter said, annoyed. “I actually invited him to _stay_ -”

“Shut up!” The order came from the sheriff, Derek, and Jordan all three so Peter didn’t argue it. Jordan was surprised again by his dad speaking up in the quiet that fell after.

“He’s an omega. If it’s not something new, a fight could have kicked off withdrawals,” he said. “If he’s been under stress already and then loses friends-”

“He didn’t lose friends... It was just a fight,” said Scott quickly. “I didn’t go anywhere.”

Lydia pursed her lips. “No, you’ve just been an absolute alpha ass. Who doesn’t return calls.”

“It could still be enough to knock him down, it’s how he sees the situation that determines how his system reacts. If he was already overloaded, it wouldn’t take much to trigger the shutdown,” said JT, talking over the threat of another fight. “That could be what you’re picking up then. Especially if it’s strong enough that you can still pick it out.”

“We’ll sort that out later,” said the sheriff. “I want to find him first, then worry about if he’s safe when I know he’s at least in one piece.”

Scott pointed to the stairwell behind them. “I just know he came down here. The only scent trail I got was from this hallway and that piece of paper.”

Derek and the sheriff exchanged a glance before Derek nodded and went to retrace Scott’s steps downstairs.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, this is only about the half-way mark of the story. It's alllll downhill from here!
> 
> But I'm sure everyone will hate the second half all the same as they hated the first... >:D
> 
> \-------

He had been here before. Maybe not to that particular geographical location, but the mental landscape was definitely familiar. Dr. Morell had called it withdrawal, and casually mentioned there was no way to fix it. It would go away on it's own. Eventually. It was an omega thing, it was why people with the syndrome needed a social network. The simple presence of friends and family could flood their system with their own special kind of dopamine, light up all the parts of the brain receptive to happiness and safety. And when the people in their lives who caused that stopped coming around, the opposite happened. Nothing lit up. It was like they fried their brains and had to heal, just to start it over again with the next person they latched on to.

A year earlier, Stiles had nearly lost his dad after lying to him for months, constant distance and fits of frustration. And Scott didn't help, leaving Stiles to fend for himself when an alpha pack showed up. By the time the Darach had taken his dad from him, Stiles was a shaking mess of withdrawal and his dad's disappearance had shoved him right into the deep end. It brought out the panic attacks and the depression, the insomnia, weird dreams and loss of appetite. There was an ache in his muscles that sunk into his bones, like a really harsh cold that didn't warm up. Seventy-two hours in Eichen hadn't helped, and everything about Brunski had made it worse.

It went away but it took ages, considering everything that had happened in junior year. Now it was definitely back. He had ignored it for a week and now, when he should have been fighting, when he should have been thinking, he didn't have the energy. He didn't have the focus.

What he had was a stranger literally in his space, arm over his shoulders or hugging him from behind, petting his head or taking his shaking hands to hold on to. And Stiles felt too wasted to bother cutting loose of it. He felt dazed and drugged, and some part of him knew they _had_ drugged him, so it wasn't all the withdrawal. But that's what it felt like. So he went where the hunters told him to, let the one who had been appointed as his handler, well, _handle_ him. Stiles couldn't find the switch in his head to flip on the will to care.

The hunters had dumped him in a bedroom, probably one that was actually used but it had been cleared out of anything useful. The bathroom was dusty. The door was locked. There was no window. Stiles was stuck in probably the worst horror story of his teenaged life, very aware of his surroundings, and he couldn't really care; dealing with hunters who hated him had to be about on par with dealing with an entire school hating him.

Short term was all he could focus on, like his usually ADHD brain had slowed down. Even though he consciously knew he was in trouble, knew that he was in a dangerous place with dangerous people who had dangerous intentions, he knew too that at the moment he was by himself and safe. No one was hurting him, so he could stall, try to get his mind back before thinking up the next big plan. There was a delay, a dangerous disconnect between his conscious decision making and his capability of action. He sat on the floor between the bed and the wall and tried to stop shaking, tried to get his body and brain back on the same page. Stiles tried to work around it.

The hunters left him his phone as a joke, the busted touch-screen made calls out impossible, it was just something from home. Except the phone could still turn on. The broken screen lit up, the shattered pieces scrambling the image under them. He couldn't interact with it. But his dad could still find him.

A noise from the hallway caught Stiles' attention briefly and he started to put the phone away. But it started rattling in his hand from an incoming call. It was still muted from class and Stiles was glad for that. He tried swiping at the screen to no avail, stuck seeing his dad's caller ID twisted up under the cracks. The only way he could access the call was to send it to voicemail with the button on the side of the case, so he did. Hopefully his dad could tell when a call was sent directly to voicemail instead of just ringing through to it. The screen showed an alert announcing the missed call and Stiles stared at the picture of his dad while it was there. The phone started shaking again, another call coming in. His dad again. Stiles sent it to voicemail a little quicker that time. When the third try came through, he hesitated before sending it along too. His dad got voicemail three times but a different number of rings each time. Twice was a coincidence. Three times was a pattern.

The phone stayed quiet after that. Stiles put it back in his pocket again. He took a deep breath and stared at his empty hands. His dad was looking for him. He still had his dad. There was a little more clarity around the thought.

His phone started ringing again and he fished it back out. A call from Derek. He sent it to voicemail, surprised but no less relieved to see the fragmented image of his friend on the screen. Just as he went to put it away, the cellphone rang again. This time it was Lydia. Stiles actually smiled a little as he sent her to voicemail. They were all one after another after his dad's call. They were probably with him, all together to look for Stiles. That happened a lot actually, more than Stiles really wanted to admit. But he had been pretty good about it for a year, until this. Until the omega thing got shoved in his face and he had to learn a whole different world. If this was part of that world, he didn't get why anyone would want him to learn about it. Gradually, Stiles felt the fog lifting away from his thoughts. He still had his friends. He'd always had his friends.

Before he could put the cell phone back in his pocket, it shook the silent ring again. Stiles stared at the screen, surprised at the call trying to come in. It was Scott. He was slower to send the call to voicemail that time. But he did. And then he put the phone back in his pocket in a hurry because his eyes started watering and he wasn't going to cry over a stupid broken cell phone.

 

***

 

It hit Jordan quickly that he had seen the hallway before. The extra bodies around him now could be touched and brushed out of the way, actual physical people rather than a stubborn creation of a dreamworld. He swore under his breath and moved away from the others to check around the long hallway. Doors were locked when he tried them but he knew what they felt like in his hand before he had touched them. He moved to the center of the floor, where he remembered seeing Stiles on his knees and facing down another teenager.

“There was a group of them,” he said.”That’s why you can’t smell anything. They were in uniforms, I think it was basketball-”

“What are you talking about?” asked Derek.

“About Stiles. I was here, I saw what happened. I... can’t even begin to explain...”

“Yeah, well you can try...” said Lydia, her tone suspicious all the same.

“That’s all- just the basketball team and somebody named Hal.”

“Hal?” asked Lydia. She didn’t like the answer. “There’s a Harrison on the basketball team.”

“Harrison said he owed him dinner,” said Jordan. Sheriff Stilinski straightened up.

“Okay, now I need to know how you know this,” he said. Jordan just shook his head, trying to sort through the memories of the long faded, miserable dream, and the reality of standing where he had stood in it. He remembered snatches of sounds that weren’t present in the hallway now, he remembered seeing the fight. Another sound showed up and he couldn’t place it at all, like the sound of flapping wings. It wasn’t from the dream, but it didn’t sound quite right, either. Jordan followed it to look for the source and ended up at the end of the hall at another short stairwell. Derek followed after him and then cut ahead to open the heavy door the stairs stopped at. The sound of the birds stopped.

“I got a scent here,” Derek announced, mostly calling back to the others still on the upper level. Jordan followed after him as they went inside. The boiler room was empty but Derek moved around, reading it. Jordan crouched at a pile of papers and textbooks next to a familiar backpack that had been turned inside out. He sorted through it.

“No cell phone,” Jordan reported. Derek pulled his own cell phone out of his pocket to check it.

“There’s no signal down here,” he said.

“Too much interference from the equipment,” said the sheriff as he joined them. Lydia knelt over the mess Jordan was looking through, then she and Kira started picking up Stiles’ things to put back in the pack. Jordan let them because the sheriff didn’t say anything about it. Stilinski looked to Derek and Peter and Scott.

“Can you pick up anything else down here?”

“He’s scared here,” said Scott. “He was just mad up there. But this place...”

“And whoever was around him downstairs wasn’t up in the hall,” said Peter. “Different... signature. Rotten and dirty stench, which is saying something, if upstairs we had the basketball team.”

The cleverness wasn’t appreciated and Jordan set the man on ignore. He looked to his boss. “They’re not here now. So what do you want to do?”

The sheriff took another look around the muggy room.

“If the machines were blocking the signal, that’s why we couldn’t find him. So maybe they aren’t far,” the man said. He was already headed back for the stairs. He had his cell phone in his hand by the time he hit the door. Derek, Lydia and Scott followed after him. Jordan didn’t move, staring around the room and trying to figure out how he had known to find the scent there. He hadn’t dreamed of this room. He stood for a moment trying to will some kind of dream or sound or memory but nothing happened. He just stood where he was with his dad looking on, even Peter Hale lurking and watching like he knew something. There was no way Peter knew anything, though. Jordan knew even less.

 

***

 

Stiles didn't feel so much like a puppet when he was next dragged out to deal with the hunters who had grabbed him from the school. He was still shaky, his coordination off and he hadn't had food since breakfast. But he felt like he had a little more of his brain back, less shocky. His head still hurt but as long as he didn't touch it he could ignore it.

That was a mixed sort of relief. On one hand, he could think again. On the other, he recognized the face of the man who dealt with him most. He had seen him in San Francisco, even talked to him. Technically he had stolen a bottle of whiskey from the guy, but that wasn't Stiles' fault. The hunters who had snagged him from the school were the same hunters who had nearly shoved him in the SUV in the city. The guy who kept touching him was the guy who had stalked him from the bar. Stiles remembered he had hit the guy then. Given the way the hunters kept guns in easy reach, he figured they remembered that too. It wasn't good news, either way.

His handler kept up with the omega-calming techniques but Stiles was aware enough to recognize what they were when he used them. Before, it had taken over his head, because he hurt and he let it. This time, he felt it but it was no different than when the kids at school did it to him. The strokes on the back of the head or the hands-on hugs. It reminded him of Brunski and made him mad, which only helped. But he played along. He kept his hands in his pockets so he wouldn't hit anyone and he kept quiet. He still had his phone, his dad and his friends were looking for him, so he just had to wait and stay alive while he was at it.

They sat him down at a kitchen table for food and kept an eye on him. He realized then that it had been a long time since he had eaten and didn't argue. It was almost like a test or a challenge but Stiles took the food rather than the back door. There were green evergreen trees out the dark kitchen window and no other houses, so he didn't know where he was. Inside or out, he would be lost. The food sucked, though. A sandwich on old bread. He wasn't in a hurry to eat, attention divided between the food and his prison guard.

So far he hadn't said much, the message clear enough from the way he had been treated so far and what little had been said at the school. Stiles wasn't an idiot. He was living out his worst fear, the horror story he had first read about online when he was ten years old. He had even seen a movie about it once; the rare movie that had a character that was supposed to be an omega generally had to do with them needing saved from the underworld of human trafficking. Omegas served a purpose to humanity as a whole and people paid money for that, legal or otherwise. It had messed with his head when he was a kid, scared him off the Omega track right away, and it was messing with him again now, in real-time. He was angry as much as scared, and just plain exhausted from the withdrawal and then from whatever they had given him, not to mention the ache on the side of his head from the fight that afternoon. Playing along seemed like his only option, and it wasn't hard to play scared in that particular moment. Stiles caught his babysitter's attention and took a chance.

"What is this place?" he asked. The man just grinned and ruffled his hair.

"Only temporary," came the reply. Not very heartening.

"Yeah but where?"

"A long way from home, buddy. At least an hour," the man said. "Just don't bother."

"I don't want to be here," Stiles returned, annoyance upping the fear just enough to speak up. "I'm gonna bother. Okay? This is bullshit! I want to know what's going on."

The stranger stopped leaning against the counter and moved toward him. Stiles tried not to react at the way the man set a hand on the back of his chair and the edge of the table, leaned over his shoulder to fence him in.

"What's going on is what we like to call a shotgun wedding. Little omegas run away all the time, find themselves some nice sugar daddy to take care of them and keep them off the streets," the man said, tone still friendly but somehow darker. He set his hand to Stiles' shoulder and Stiles tried to shake it off. He just shifted to grab him by the back of the neck, thumb digging in just above the collar bone. "Nobody wants to be a burden on their family. It's the leading cause of death among your kind, isn't it? Grief, burden, doctor's bills..."

Shit, that hurt on so many levels. Stiles knew the man was messing with his head but it was so close to working. He leaned away and cringed but he stalled out trying to think up what to say. The creep was right.

"Now the rumor mill says you're signed on with a matchmaker. And that is just what we are, little one. We found you a match. A rich one. Your daddy doesn't have to pay for our services, we're completely pro-bono," the man said. "So you just behave yourself and we'll set you up. Get you all married off and you never have to worry about a thing ever again. That's what you all want, right?"

The hand at the back of his neck tightened as the man spoke, like he was expecting an answer and he wanted to force compliance. It hurt enough that Stiles nodded, resolve bending because he didn't think he could pick a fight if he couldn't handle the pain at his neck. It eased up and the stranger tangled his fingers in the shaggy hair at the back of Stiles' neck. It was an effective reminder that he needed a haircut and only made Stiles a little angrier. He didn't want to bow down to a hunter. But he didn't exactly have back-up to rely on. He didn't say anything as the man pulled out a chair beside Stiles and angled to watch him, stay just in his space enough to be intimidating. Stiles rubbed at the back of his neck, trying to get the feel of the man's hand off his skin. He was stuck and frustrated and angry for it, but scared all the same.

"Now you listen to me and behave when I say and enough of that," the man said. He reached forward and Stiles flinched. It didn't make a difference since the man just caught his chin and wiped at Stiles' face with a thumb. It wasn't until then that he realized his eyes had been watering, crying without knowing it. It was either fear or the concussion and Stiles pulled back again.

"I don't know you," he said, trying to get a little distance. The man smiled. It didn't help anything.

"Brent," he said, offering a hand to shake. Stiles just stared at him. He caught Stiles' hand off the table anyway. "Now you know me. Don't give me any more crap."

Stiles pulled back into his own space again. Brent patted his shoulder. "Finish your sandwich."

Rather than argue, Stiles stared at the sandwich and mentally willed the half-pieces of bread to catch fire.

 

***

 

They had a very narrow window. Hours had already been lost and there was no telling how far away those hours had carried Stiles. Jordan and the sheriff didn't dawdle long in the lower level of the school. The kids stayed behind, their werewolf senses looking for more clues as to the identities of the people involved, and Jordan ushered his dad along with his boss to get back to the truck. Derek and Scott both argued with Peter about whether he could help or not, wasting time that Jordan wasn't willing to lose. Stiles was still alive, he still had his phone and that was enough to track him. They weren't messing around with losing that lead.

They got to the SUV and were climbing inside when a low-slung Corvette eased up and parked right in front, blocking the sheriff’s vehicle in. Parrish’s first response was anger and he was very aware of that, frustrated by it; anger wasn’t going to help him move faster, it just clouded his judgement and ability to think. His dad caught his shoulder from the back seat, because that was how his dad had always been, the calm one who encouraged more calm. A familiar woman got out of the car that had trapped them in and Jordan relied very heavily on his father’s calming energy suddenly. He sunk a little in the seat, like he could hide behind the wheel. Natalie Martin was at the sheriff’s door before Jordan had figured out how to squash the inevitable train wreck about to happen.

“Now is seriously not the time,” Jordan tried to say as Natalie hung on the window to keep them from driving off. As if they could with her car in front of them and a fence behind them.

“Now is the only time,” she said. She directed her attention back to to the sheriff. “Lydia said Stiles has been taken. I brought you the papers-”

“What the- what papers? Natalie, this is really-” The sheriff was flustered, impatience and fear running up against his usual professional politeness. The matchmaker at the window literally shoved two papers and a pen at him to make the sheriff accept them.

“You need to sign these. And I will get them to the judge while you find Stiles,” she told them. The sheriff frowned at her, paying attention now, then he looked at the papers. Jordan and his own father shamelessly snooped on the forms. The sheriff looked suddenly angry.

“These are for a marriage license,” he said.

“Oh, shit,” muttered Jordan’s dad behind them. Jordan looked between the others, confused.

“What- Natalie, we need to go-” he tried. Natalie looked in at them, frustrated.

“If someone took Stiles, _what_ would be their _objective_? How does the omega story usually go, Deputy? A runaway omega either shows up dead someday, or they show up a year down the road, married with children to tie them to their kidnapper, and that’s if they show up at all,” said Natalie. “The only way to work around that is if the boy is already married. If there’s a marriage on file, the application will be flagged and the omega will be held at the county office until the partner on the original document is called in to verify the original certificate is invalid. If you don’t find him, this is the back-up plan. He can’t be sold off this way. We’ve had to use it in other cases. Trust me-”

The sheriff looked like he wanted to argue but he was giving it actual consideration. Then he shook his head. “There’s no one to sign for it. Two lines on the form, two signatures. I can sign for Stiles but what am I supposed to do, make up a name for the other line?”

Natalie rolled her eyes. She nodded toward Jordan. “If he won’t do it then Lydia will. That’s all we need. It will all be annulled when you get Stiles back. But for now it’s a... preventative measure, proven in the past to be effective,” she told him.

To Jordan’s surprise, Stiles’ dad had taken up the pen and was filling in the form. The earlier anger was overridden by a slight panic, his gut clenched and Jordan wanted to argue the man’s decision. His dad squeezed his shoulder, gave a little shove but Jordan just sat and stared at the paper as the sheriff handed it back to Natalie.

“Have Lydia sign it, I think she’s still in the school with the others,” the sheriff said. “It’ll give Whittemore a heart attack and that’ll make me feel better.”

Natalie accepted the forms but she stared straight at Jordan. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t how anything was supposed to work out, but Jordan reached for the papers. He didn’t take them but he made the offer.

“I’m here now, I’ll sign,” he said. Natalie openly glared at him but that was all Jordan was willing to say about the issue with Stiles’ father then. He felt like he was red enough and the whole thing was wasting time. Stiles’ dad looked at him, confused, and his own dad looked at him like he was trying not to laugh.

“Kid, you don’t have to do that-” the sheriff began but Natalie seemed to take the sheriff’s surprise as permission and put the forms in Jordan’s hand.

“See me when you’ve found Stiles, there’s a few things we’ll need to clear up,” she said to the sheriff. Jordan looked up at her sharply, silently demanding that the woman keep her matchmaking mouth shut. Natalie just smiled at him, a little too sweet to be genuine and so very much like her daughter. Jordan scowled at the forms, found the line to scrawl his name, and shoved the forms back at her.

“Can we go now?” Jordan asked, impatient. Natalie dropped down from the step at the passenger window without another word and hurried to the sports car idling in front of the sheriff’s cruiser. The sheriff gave Jordan an almost suspicious look before he went back to the project of pulling up Stiles’ phone on his own phone’s GPS.

“If it works, thanks,” his boss said without looking up at him. Jordan nodded and tried to pretend he wasn’t blushing. A very smug JT Parrish reached forward from where he leaned between the passenger and driver’s seats and ruffled Jordan’s hair like he was still ten years old. Jordan swatted his father back and prayed the sheriff wasn’t paying attention.


	13. Chapter 13

A little over an hour after he had sent his dad to voicemail, Stiles was sitting in a stranger's kitchen trying to figure out if the chance of being killed outweighed the promise of being sold off. One was just a chance, the other was a guarantee. But it wasn't like Stiles' luck had been exactly working in his favor lately. He leaned elbows on the table and kept the hunters in sight as best as possible. Hyper-aware of his surroundings as he was, he still jumped when the kitchen door swung open.

"Where's the breeder?" asked the hunter stomping inside. Stiles stared at him in something akin to stupid shock. He had been on the alpha track since he first presented and for some reason had never heard anyone _call him_ that. He mostly only heard it in movies. It was never used kindly. Under his current circumstances, it drove home every word Brent had said earlier, only this hunter was angrier. Brent didn't seem disturbed by the man's entrance at all and Stiles angled a little behind him, wanting to keep the known hunter between him and anyone new. Brent noticed and leaned back in his chair to counter the effort, pointed calmly at Stiles like a traitor.

"Right where I put him. Whatcha need?" he asked.

"Did you find out if it's pure?" the hunter asked. The guy didn't have the gun like he had at the school but he was just as angry as before.

"Holy shit," said Stiles before he could remember why he was playing along with the dull-omega expectation. Brent arched an eyebrow and glanced over at him.

"Well, he's got a dirty mouth," he said.

"Not pure," Stiles said quickly, shaking his head. "No."

"That was a little quick," said Brent. His friend glared from Stiles to Brent and back.

"Is it lying?"

Stiles had to work at finding air. He didn't want to know why purity was being discussed and mentally scrabbled for anything he could find to dirty up his general sales-pitch. "Come on! All my friends are werewolves, what do you actually-"

"Never had pups though," said Brent. "That would have made the news. I think Argent would have done something about that, too."

Stiles' mouth clicked shut. Brent looked at the other hunter. "Pure. If all his friends are werewolves, they behaved themselves or he'd have been claimed by now, not in school on the alpha track."

Suddenly disturbed on new levels, Stiles blinked between the two men. How did they know so much about his life?

"You're sure?" Angry asked. He waved a dismissive hand at Stiles as he went back to dealing with Brent. "What about the video? We got a hundred grand on this. We're not screwing around on this guy."

Brent looked happy enough at the news but Stiles forgot how to breathe.

"The video showed the thing on the stairs didn't get anywhere," said Brent. "Pure. Get us our money."

Stiles felt the panic hit, his face going numb as his hands shook. This was worse than the withdrawals, those just exhausted him and made it hard to think, but he couldn't catch a breath. The angry hunter left the room again and it didn't help. There was too much going on. Too much money on the table, too much risk, too much chance of very immediate, very personal pain on so many levels. Panic was the least useful thing he could have done just then but Stiles had actually nothing he could do. He registered Brent in his space, patting his back, grabbing his hand or petting his head. It was actually a little useful because it made him angry and the anger almost overrode the panic.

"Let me call my dad," he managed to say, struggling to stay present. Brent just stroked his hair out of his eyes.

"Probably in a few months. That's how it usually works," said Brent, his voice quiet and calm as usual. Stiles had been hoping for something that would make him angrier, not panic more. Brent caught his hand again and Stiles didn't manage to claim it back. He gave up playing tug of war for his own hand and tried to think his way out of the uselessness he felt.

Then a noise from outside came through, catching his attention away from Brent's buzzing annoying presence. He heard a wolf howling. It was close but not too close, not in danger. Stiles tried again to reclaim his hand, a little desperate. He wasn't sure his mind wasn't playing tricks and he wanted his own space, hoping to clarify it. Brent didn't let go and Stiles gave up. He tried another way, set his head on his arm on the table, just to focus on steadying his breathing.

The wolf howled again and Stiles heard it clearly that time.

 

***

 

The drive was irritatingly familiar and Jordan did a lot of mental swearing about it. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and waited for the sheriff to sort out the GPS. There was a moment of terror when he thought his academy ring had made it to his left hand somehow during the drive and Jordan had to mentally recalibrate to tell his right from his left.

"It still has his signal, right?" he asked, trying to stay focused. The sheriff's jaw clenched, frown etching a little deeper on his features.

"No. The signal's gone."

They were in the middle of nowhere, an hour into the forests that climbed into the Sierra Nevadas. Snow sat in patches along the road but it was a clear night. The full moon was only a few nights off and the light reflected off the snow like daylight. Side roads were few and far between and there were no houses immediately visible from the road. Parrish flicked the emergency flashers and slowed the cruiser to a crawl on the empty road.

His dad moved to lean between the front seats, a calming presence but a distracting one; this was a part of the world that Jordan wanted to keep his dad away from and instead he was driving him right into the worst of it. Explaining hunters meant explaining werewolves and explaining werewolves would inevitably lead to the things Jordan had been hiding for a year, things he didn’t even know how to broach with his dad yet. He didn’t want to. Now on top of that sat a marriage certificate with his name on it and the glaring fact that his dad was only in town at all because he had gotten a phone call from a matchmaker wanting a character reference. All of the things in Jordan’s simple life had gotten very complicated suddenly. For now, his priority was getting to Stiles and he couldn’t wrap his mind around explaining any of it to his dad.

On the other side of JT in the passenger seat, the sheriff squinted at a cell phone screen, zooming in and out on various points of the map. He didn't seem to find anything useful and tossed the phone into the dash. He propped an elbow against the window and chewed at a knuckle, the adrenaline slowly fading off for worry. Jordan’s dad caught the sheriff’s shoulder and gave a firm shake. Worry wasn't useful.

"We're not going back without him. Derek's out here looking too. We just have to... Pick up the scent again," Jordan said. The sheriff huffed and waved a hand out the window.

"The werewolf who can pick up scents is out there somewhere so that doesn't do us much good from here," he said. Okay, so he had a valid point but the werewolf thing wasn’t supposed to have come up again. It was bad enough at the school but at least there, they had been too busy for his dad to notice anything _weird_. Expecting a round of questions that surprisingly never came, Jordan looked out at the road stretched out ahead of them in the dark. Finding a black wolf in those shadows _would_ be impossible. He swore under his breath and searched his mind for a new idea.

Movement on the road ahead caught his attention. He squinted out at a large raven that swooped in from the trees to land in the middle of the empty street. Beady black eyes gleamed as it blinked at them. Jordan remembered the crows and the raven from earlier in the day, at the school. He pointed the sheriff's attention out the windshield.

"You see that, right?" he asked. The sheriff looked, brow furrowed in confusion.

"The crow?" his dad asked from the backseat.

"Raven," muttered Jordan. "Crows are smaller."

Then the bird hopped toward their car, the yellow beams of the flashing headlamps catching the fluffed up feathers. A second later the bird flopped up into the air, flight trajectory taking the bird somewhere straight along the path of the road.

"Shitshitshit this is crazy," Jordan said under his breath. All the same, he kicked the car back into gear and... Followed the bird.

The sheriff split his attention between the view out the windshield and the driver. "Are we...?"

Jordan nodded. "Yep, boss. Just... Go with me on this."

The sheriff held up his hands. "At this point I would accept time travelers and their time machines so just, ya know, do your thing, son."

Jordan nodded, keeping his attention on the raven flying low, just above and beyond the headlights.

 

***

 

A half an hour later, Stiles was worse off but he felt somehow better for it. He had a cut on his cheek and knew it was going to bruise around that. That was the only visible proof of the fight he had lost because the rest were body blows to “keep him pretty.” His shirt was in shreds wadded up in a corner with his pride.

Angry had shown up again once the price was confirmed and the deal was sealed. He had snapped a cellphone photo of Stiles at the table, surprised and barely with it, as proof of current ownership of the goods to be sold. The reply had been almost immediate: Stiles looked rough, too casually dressed, and didn't they have something in blue?

The second a blue button-down shirt was pulled out of a closet and shoved at him, Stiles made a fist and decked Brent across the jaw. He got in another couple of hits but there were four of them and one of him. They had a knife and he didn’t even have claws.

In the end, he sat in a room by himself, in the blue shirt and somebody else's black jeans. The cell phone was confiscated in the ordeal, battery removed, plastic parts smashed the rest of the way by Angry and a heavy lamp from the den. He didn't know what to do about the loss yet. He was preoccupied with the tape over his mouth and wrists. It gave him something else to think about and he focused on that.

They had taped his wrists crossed, palm down, and used a stupid amount of tape. It was a bitch trying to get duct tape off a bruised face when he could hardly use his thumbs. Stiles called it good enough at half off and had started gnawing at the tape on his wrists - with his teeth - when Angry showed up again. He had a knife again - _better than a gun_ \- and Stiles ignored the lecture about how he had better act like a 'mega and shut up when the new owner showed up. His eyes followed the knife because he wanted the knife. Knives cut half a roll of duct tape easier than his teeth did. The hunter and his efforts at guaranteeing the safe, completed delivery of his money registered as entirely unimportant to Stiles' life. If the guy wanted the money, after all, he wasn't going to use a knife on Stiles, and a few more bruises sucked but Stiles got his ass kicked at lacrosse practice, too. The first punch hurt the worst, everything after that Stiles could ignore long enough to get home.

Adrenaline had kicked in finally, past everything else from the last eight hours alone. He knew Derek was outside somewhere, he had heard him, and he trusted his gut-instinct that the guy wasn't going to let him down. He hadn't yet in two years. He wouldn't over some stupid omega thing either. Now Stiles was all too aware that he was unarmed and alone, and worse, he was wearing someone else's clothes and his scent would be all confused. He couldn't sit by and hope, he had to move, do anything.

Then the knife was held toward him and Stiles held his hands out, expectant. He'd let the hunter do the work for him if the guy was really going to offer. It was a faint, though, and Stiles had been too distracted to pay attention. The hunter caught him by the arm to upset his balance and pull him off the bed. He slapped the tape back over Stiles' mouth as he steered him out of the room again. In the hall, Brent caught Stiles by the back of the neck again in a smooth pass off. With no knife to do anything about it, Stiles had to follow the hunter into the den again.

He backed off on the belligerence when he saw two new people in the den with the hunters he already knew. The odds of six to one were slightly more daunting.

"What the hell is this?" asked a brown haired man standing near the fireplace. He was dressed sharp, like somebody from the city out to impress. He was probably only a few years older than Derek, (if that,) built, and everything about him screaming _money_. Stiles stared, wide-eyed.

"I told you on the phone he was a handful, Mr. Carrington," said Angry.

"You also told me you hadn't hurt him," the stranger said. Mr. Carrington looked to the other new face in the room before he looked at Stiles. His gaze swept up and down and Stiles jerked his shoulder out of Brent's grip, self-conscious and not wanting touched suddenly.

"Are you alright then?" Mr. Carrington asked. He sounded pretentious and spoiled but he seemed to actually want an answer. Stiles couldn't give him one though, with the tape on his mouth and Angry's explicit warnings against talking or acting at all like an unruly omega.

“We picked him up like that, actually,” Brent offered up.

"He's fine, he just fussed earlier and hit his head," said Angry. Stiles scoffed.

"Yeah, on your fist," he said through the tape. It came out muffled but Mr. Carrington got the gist. He got visibly angry. Stiles amped up the innocence; he could work two sides against the other. Mr. Carrington moved toward them then, reached to take Stiles' shoulder. Brent tugged him back first.

"It's a bruise. It'll heal after we get paid," he said.

"It's a week before he can be seen in public," Mr. Carrington said. Brent caught Stiles by the chin and made him look at him.

"Nah. Adds to the charm, all rugged and hearty for a little breeder," said Brent. Stiles bit the inside of his cheek and tugged free. Mr. Carrington looked back to his friend and nodded. The man pulled out a cell phone, pushed a few buttons and then handed it to Mr. Carrington. A few more keystrokes and he announced that it was done. Seconds later, Brent's cell phone beeped from his pocket. He checked it and Stiles could see the screen. An email alert confirmed delivery of an ungodly amount of money. Stiles stared until the phone was put away, then was distracted by the fact that Brent moved out of his space.

Mr. Carrington was the next thing to draw his attention, carefully catching Stiles' face to check the injury. Stiles frowned at him for it, mentally stuck and confused.

Somebody had just spent more money than Stiles would ever see in his lifetime to keep him. All legalities and moral quandaries of the situation aside, that was a big commitment. Stiles had willingly spent money to try to get Derek back, because Derek was pack, he already had that responsibility to his friend. Anything between heaven and hell was in Stiles' target zone for his friends. And it wasn’t even his money.

But this stranger had spent a hundred thousand dollars to see Stiles stand there in a blue shirt. What the actual hell?

It didn't help that the stranger was actually nice to look at. Stiles was thinking about it way too much. He knew what every single one of his Omega Track teachers would advise in this particular matchmaking scenario: follow the stability, side with the money, make something work, use instinct and go along with it. All the important pieces were there, money, looks, and commitment. All that was supposed to matter to anyone with the little _omega_ check-box after their name, like him.

The tape was very gently pulled from Stiles' mouth, the stranger still carefully touching.

"Are you alright? I can get you to a doctor if you need one," the man said. Stiles mumbled that he was fine and tried to look away. Mr. Carrington hadn't let go of him yet and it was getting weird for Stiles, his nerves wearing thin. The man in his space was still being hesitant and almost timid, like he recognized what an invasion of personal space was but was willing to play the game. His thumb brushed over Stiles' unbruised cheek, green eyes like Derek's watching him, something tender almost. The thumb traced over Stiles' lips and he knew where it was going.

"Nope," he muttered when the stranger leaned in for the kiss. Carrington got his cheek instead and seemed disoriented for it when he realized the smooth move had been thwarted. The rich alpha who had just bought and paid for an omega looked mildly offended but didn't leave Stiles' space. Stiles stared back at him, no sign of encouragement on his part.

"What was that?" the man asked. Stiles shrugged.

"That's not how it's done. You buy me dinner first or no deal," he replied. The stranger gave a startled laugh, like he was trying to figure out if Stiles was serious or not. He caught Stiles by the arm then, a hard grip no different than the hunters. _That_ Stiles understood and knew what to do with. Damning the consequences, he used the man's grip against him with a full body check that sent him tumbling backwards over a coffee table.

In the same instant, there was yelling outside and the front door of the old house kicked open hard enough to splinter the frame.


	14. Chapter 14

The raven pointed them to a side road a mile further up the mountain highway. Another mile and Jordan saw Derek's SUV parked against the tree line. He killed the lights, stopped close behind the familiar vehicle to get their bearings.

"I don't see anything," said the sheriff. Jordan nodded, pointed to the SUV.

"Derek must have, though," he said. That was enough and the sheriff reached for the door to get out. Jordan did the same, and he mentally cringed as he heard his dad get out of the car, too. He didn't want to have to lecture his dad in front of his boss. It wasn't safe for him there if it wasn’t safe for Stiles and Jordan wasn't willing to risk the both of them in the same night. But Derek getting out of the SUV distracted him from it.

"He's here," Derek reported. He pointed to a lighted house barely visible through the trees. "I could count four men. Hunters. About five minutes ago another car showed up but I wasn't close enough to see who or how many."

"You couldn't get him?" the sheriff asked. Even Jordan heard the disappointment in the man's voice. He had so much faith in Derek and the man had however unwillingly let him down. Peter stood not far behind Derek, arms crossed and attitude plain.

"He was a four legged wolf. Sure, he could have broken a window, maybe, but the lack of opposable thumbs put him at a tactical disadvantage and would have left Stiles at risk," said Peter. "Now that the odds are a little more even, he can get the boy."

Jordan wanted to but couldn't think of anything to argue Peter down on. They seemed to have the same goals on this one. Derek caught his arm just enough to get his attention.

"We have to be ready to move when we get him, so the Sheriff and your dad stay with the cars. You and me go in, we should be able to handle it," Derek said.

"And me," added Peter. Derek glared over at his uncle but didn't have a chance to tell him off. "You're the one who says the brat is pack. We've got an omega in the pack, we're keeping him."

"And you'll need the help," said Jordan's dad, surprising him. "There's four that we know of. Two against four isn't strong enough when you don't know what you're walking into. Plus they have the kid. Too weak an attack and they use him instead of attack you."

Jordan stared at his dad in open shock. "This isn't the movies, Dad..."

"No, it's _hunters_ ," said JT. "And their breed hasn't changed much in twenty years, so trust me. Don't go in weak. Peter helps."

Peter seemed rather full of himself after that. Jordan looked to the sheriff. His boss nodded. "We get Stiles out now. I'll stay out here and get units on the way in case things go sideways. But you bring him back out."

His boss kept his attention on Jordan and Derek, intentionally not looking at Peter in the order, and Jordan felt a little better for it.

"You three approach from the woods. We'll move closer but we'll go in dark," the sheriff continued. "When you're in we'll try to provide distraction. Just get my kid and get out. Got it?"

Already shrugging out of his jacket and uniform shirt, Jordan nodded. The uniform was tan but his T-shirt was black and let him disappear easier in the shadows under the full moon. Derek handed his keys over to JT. Jordan ignored Peter as they cut through the trees toward the house.

“Is he okay?” Jordan asked Derek once he was sure the sheriff couldn’t hear him. Derek rolled his shoulders and his hands clenched into fists as they moved between shadows.

“I heard a fight but couldn’t get in,” he said. “When I left, he was angry but breathing. They locked him up in the back of the house.”

“Then we go in the back?” asked Jordan. “Is there a back door?”

“Windows, no doors,” said Derek. “The doors are at the front, and one by the garage.”

Peter had kept up with them but didn’t crowd too close; Jordan and Derek trusted each other to share walking space but Peter didn’t.

“Then you two go in the front. I’ll cover the side. That makes things nice and easy,” the man said. Again, he showed logic and a common goal, so Jordan didn’t argue. He glanced back toward the road and saw the sheriff’s vehicle and Derek’s car sat idling, lights dark. He looked back to Derek.

“You take point,” he said. “You’re stronger, better advantage in a fight than I’ll have.”

Jordan didn’t mention the concern he had, the fear of the unknown that he brought to the mix. Even Peter knew what he was, knew when he was tested what he had to fight with, crazy or not. Jordan, however, had nightmares that woke him up to char and soot on his hands. And he had anger burning already, worry for Stiles and fear of what they had missed. He was walking in the mountains in winter and felt heated enough that he felt sweat on his neck. It would be safer to let the werewolves take the lead, rely on the instinct of following a captain than going in unleashed. The last thing Jordan wanted to do was make things worse. If he thought anything of it, Derek didn’t say anything. He just nodded.

The cars at the road started moving a little early. Derek noticed and, though they still had thirty yards to cover, started running. Jordan and Peter followed after, Jordan staying out of the shadows and under the moonlight to be sure he kept his footing. Then they were at the house and Derek pointed Peter silently toward the second entry point. The two werewolves kept their attention on the house even as they moved and there was no missing the way Derek got steadily worse at keeping himself in check. When Peter disappeared from view around the house, Derek charged the front door, pure anger on his face. It was an open invitation and Jordan followed at a run, shouting a warning for Stiles that was equal parts battle cry.

 

***  
  


Everything was chaos. Hunters scrambled to figure out what they were up against while Carrington pulled Stiles up against him. Stiles couldn't tell if the man was trying to use him as a human shield or if the move was somehow supposed to protect him. He didn't like it, either way, and shoved to get away from the stranger hugging him. It made the man wary and he changed his hold, shoving back at Stiles to unbalance him. It forced an odd spin and Carrington stepped in behind him instead, an arm around his neck. Human shield it was then. A hundred thousand dollars of human shield.

At least Stiles finally got a good look at the players involved. Derek and Jordan. Stiles liked those odds much better. He caught at Carrington's arm to keep it from choking him as he dragged down and tried to fall. The man shifted to catch him around the waist instead, propped him up with his own body.

He heard Carrington say something to his friend. The man was armed and had the handgun out in warning. But he didn't shoot anyone, only shook his head.

"No sense. Better to leave," he said. Then the two men dragged Stiles down the hall toward the back of the house. He was literally dragged, trying to make himself dead weight, but Carrington was his height or a little taller maybe, and he spent more time in the gym than Stiles had in his life, so it didn't do much good.

The only real problem with their perfect plan was that there were no ways out in the back of the house. Among the noise from the fighting down the hall, Stiles let out a laugh.

"You really thought this whole thing through, huh," he said. He was almost giddy. His friends had found him. That was half the battle. Now he just had to stall, keep himself trapped in the back of the narrow hall. Derek and Jordan would get him out when they had kicked the hunters' asses. Stiles could be patient when there was no immediate threat, and the lack of an exit strategy showed the two men were no threat. Unlike the hunters occasionally throwing things at the walls trying to hit his friends.

Stiles could at least keep the two with him busy and out of the fight. He elbowed Carrington in the gut and pulled away again, dodging toward one of the open rooms. He made it inside but couldn't get the door shut fast enough and it pushed back open, sending him sprawling. Carrington's friend was the first inside and took advantage, stepped on Stiles' chest to keep him down. It worked, after the fight from earlier had already left him bruised, so Stiles kept still. He had to work to keep breathing but he grinned, smug. Any second, his friends would win, and Carrington wasn't going to kill someone he had just paid real money for. Stiles could wait them out.

 

***

 

The direct-assault approach wasn’t one Parrish had resorted to in his short career as a deputy. It was one he knew from the military but the rules were different there. Here, it put Stiles at risk, going in blind. They were dealing with hunters, people who stole people from their families for profit as a day-job in order to support their hobby of killing people. There was no guarantee of safety, no matter what they did. So Jordan trusted Derek’s senses and followed him in, service weapon drawn as he scanned the room for friend versus foe. He saw Stiles in the midst of a group of men, four in rough work clothes and two others in suits that would cost Jordan a month’s pay. It wasn’t hard to tell what was going on in just a few seconds glance but those few seconds were all he had. Then Stiles was being dragged away by the men in the suits and Derek was charging the hunters who moved to intercept.

Close quarters made the handgun difficult and Parrish holstered it, moved in to help pull a man away from Derek and invite a good old fashioned fight. Derek and Peter took on three men in the living room area of the old house and Jordan worked on the fourth. It wasn’t where he wanted to be, but Derek had told him there was no way out from the back of the house so the hunters were only a temporary distraction. And then they charged up the light sabers and the temporary distraction got a slight extension. Jordan knew better than to risk playing with one of those when even the werewolves could get knocked back by them. It was cheating.

When the man somehow managed to trip him up and send him sprawling, Jordan was done. He wasn’t going to play fair just because he was fighting someone with less than supernatural abilities. His opponent didn’t know quite what to do about a sheriff’s deputy fighting alongside werewolves and the hesitation brought Jordan enough time to make it back up to his feet.

“What the hell-” the man looked shocked, to say the least, and he backed off when a second earlier he had been about to continue the fight. He held the electrified baton out just enough to keep Jordan back. “What are you?”

“Pissed off,” replied Jordan. He raised a hand to knock the baton from the man’s grip and saw suddenly what had changed the tide of his fight. His arms glowed orange, crackling fire just beneath the surface and fading from blue to orange to yellow. He had seen it before, he knew what it did, and Jordan decided to use it while he still could. He grabbed the hunter by the wrist and let him howl in pain as he wrenched the baton from him. He had him by the throat with the other hand and watched it leave a mark. “You want to think about your life choices, buddy?”

The man dropped the baton and Jordan kicked him away, toward the door to hopefully send him running right into the sheriff. That’s when he saw the fire slowly creeping along the rug that covered the wood floor. It had probably started when he had landed there moments earlier and was moving as a slow burn, just enough heat to move and consume but not enough to flare. And then it caught the active hunter’s baton. It caught the charged wand and amplified, a column of flame going straight to the low ceiling.

“Ohshit-” Jordan stared at it, then back at Derek and Peter. “Fire!”

The response from Peter was almost instantaneous. The werewolf was half shifted, sharp claws and fangs fending off a baton and a big silver knife, and the moment he was warned of the fire, he launched into the hunter to drag him down. The man wasn’t dead but he had half his throat ripped out when a werewolf went from angry to scared. Jordan went to help the guy stand before he burned up on the rug, too. The idea was to have survivors of the whole mess, arrests could happen that way, investigations could be made into how everything had ended up there. They needed to get Stiles back, and they needed to put a stop to the branch of hunters who had snagged him from the school. They had to be alive for that.

“Peter, get him out!” he called, but Peter stood by the retreat route through what looked to be a kitchen, staring in at the fire shooting up in the middle of the room. The ceiling had caught and the smoke was crawling, dangerously thick. Jordan didn’t have time to deal with a trauma-case werewolf and he hauled the injured hunter up off the ground. His hands still burned the man but that was nothing compared to the damage that could be done if the man didn’t get outside. The fire spread to the walls and started to climb, just like it did in Jordan’s nightmares. He guided the hunter through the smoke to the doorway and tossed him outside, an ungraceful mess, and went back to check in on Derek.

By then the man’s two opponents had dwindled down to one, because Peter was sparring with the second in the kitchen. Served him right for standing there like an easy target around men who wanted to kill him and everyone like him. The house was literally on fire around them, urgency was called for, and Peter Hale was forgetting how to _werewolf_. It was against his better judgement, but Jordan helped Peter. He caught the wrist of the hunter taking aim at Peter and dragged the gun down. It clattered on the floor, just one more noise amid the crackling and hissing of the house around them, and the hunter looked up at Jordan with wide, confused eyes. Jordan trapped his hand, too, hopefully ruining any luck the man had with a gun for the future, and then shoved him at Peter.

“Outside! Take him to the sheriff!” he yelled over the noise of the house around them. Peter latched claws into the man’s neck and shoved him out of the kitchen, the smoke already making the man cough. Surprisingly, it wasn’t getting to Jordan yet, but it was hard to see. By the time Jordan got back out to Derek, Derek was just coming back in from having kicked out his hunter-problem. He looked Jordan over, wary, but more concerned about the fire around them.

“Did you find Stiles?” Derek asked, coughing. Jordan shook his head, held up a hand.

“I can’t help him if I had,” he said. His arms still radiated dangerous energy, unnatural colors and problems for anyone or thing he got them too close to. Derek frowned at him.

“We’re gonna have to work on that,” he said. Jordan agreed but that was all they said about it, their attention shifted back to looking into where Stiles had gone. The fire had crawled along the ceiling down the hall and smoke choked up the narrow space. There were four doors off the hall and only one of them was closed, at the far end. They focused on that as the most likely option and Derek forced the door.

Inside the room, they found two men standing on an old dresser, trying to break the glass of an old, narrow crank-window that wouldn’t open more than a crack. It was likely painted shut and all they had to work with was a lamp. A smarter man would have used a gun, or maybe just walked out the door in the first place, given that’s what doors were intended for as opposed to windows, but they looked a little smoke-addled. Hopefully it meant they weren’t armed. The smoke in the room was terrible, like every draft from the rest of the house had snuck under the closed door looking for the fresh air, and even Jordan’s eyes stung from it. Derek went unerringly to Stiles, relying on senses that Jordan couldn’t just to find him passed out against the wall, dangerously close to the door and a wall that was actually on fire three feet further down the hall.

Through the smoke, the men probably couldn’t get a clear look at Derek’s werewolf-contorted face, but all the same, Jordan moved to stand between them and Derek as he saw to Stiles. It was hard to keep his attention split and he got tired of it. So when the men jumped down from the table and took the open door as their invitation to leave, Jordan didn’t argue. He just made sure they left. When he looked back to Derek, he saw him still trying to rouse Stiles.

“What’s going on?” he asked, worried and anxious by the delay. Derek kept Stiles propped up and tapped at his face with his palm.

“I want him up. He’s breathing, he’s okay. But he needs to wake up,” said Derek. That was easily the stupidest thing Jordan had ever heard Derek say and he would have cuffed him in the back of the head for it if it weren’t for the fact that he might have caught the man’s hair on fire.

“He can breathe _outside_!” he said instead. The house was loud around them so they had raised their voices louder and it seemed to get through to Stiles. He woke up coughing, like he had somehow drowned and had to clear the airway. Derek helped him stay upright until he got his bearings, precious seconds wasting, and to his feet. He looked gray but his eyes were the usual alert and Jordan opted not to kick Derek’s ass for the delay after all. He lead the way out of the room and kept the path clear for the people behind him who were, unlike him apparently, still sensitive to problems like open, burning flames. The front of the house was a mess by the time they got back to it, too much fire to risk the front door, so they took the back way, via the kitchen. It was easier to hear Stiles coughing once they were away from the house, out in the quiet of the woods that were now dangerously close to a burning house fire.

Jordan was surprised to see that his dad had found a garden hose and was dousing the trees closest to the house, at the back. The sheriff had six men under arrest, although one man was sitting upright against the fender of the sheriff’s vehicle, handcuffed in front instead of behind like the others, so that he could try to maybe not die from the werewolf-inflicted wounds across his neck and chest. The other five, hunters and rich men in suits all alike, sat in a row in the bright beams of the two cars, so they could watch the fire. Peter hung back between the cars, looking like he wanted to run as he watched the flames in open distrust.

Sheriff Stilinski stood watch over the suspects until he saw Stiles running alongside Derek as they came around the house. Jordan brought up the rear, kept himself between the others and the fire as best as possible, until they were a safe distance out. Then he moved silently to take over the sheriff’s post watching over the men. He could hear Stiles’ efforts at talking, heard his coughs plain as day, and they were just close enough to the fall of light from the car headlamps that he could see father and son hug.

It was only then that Jordan realized he had run right by his own father with his arms still on fire and a moment of panic hit like water from the hose working pitifully on the house fire that Jordan had started. But when he looked at his arms, they were normal, no burns, no charring. He had held the door open for Derek and Stiles on the way out of the house because the thing was already on fire, but there wasn’t even any proof of that. He turned his hands over, back and forth, staring at them in the light of the headlamps, but everything was back to normal. His school ring was still on his finger, looking pristine clean but otherwise untouched by the bizarre leftovers of his resurrection from the ashes of a car fire. All Jordan could hope for was that his father hadn’t noticed and wouldn’t have any questions for him, because he certainly had enough of his own, and not a single answer.


	15. Chapter 15

The smoke right in his face triggered a panic attack, because a lack of oxygen was the last thing he needed on top of everything else. The last thing Stiles remembered was choking. He woke up to Derek in his face, trying to bring him out of it.

"Not the head," Stiles muttered, catching Derek's hand before the light taps turned into actual slaps, or worse, given what Stiles usually had to resort to just to wake the passed-out werewolves in his life.

"Can you move? I smell blood and see bruises-" Derek trailed off as Stiles nodded and he helped him up. Breathing hurt like hell and Stiles could barely get a full breath around the smoke. He registered Jordan with them, saw his face, sooty and sweaty in the smoke like Derek's, and that was all he had time for. The stupid house was on fire.

Jordan ran ahead of them and held broken pieces of the ceiling back that had fallen away, shoved through doors that were on fire. Stiles knew Derek was at his back, a hand at his shoulder or the back of his belt to keep him running if he slowed, but following Jordan was surreal. The man's arms glowed through the smoke like he had caught fire. The color faded out near his shoulder, it didn't move like fire.

Maybe Stiles was a little delirious but it looked like it was actually _Jordan_ , not something burning him. The coughing distracted him too much to think about it and he focused on running, one foot in front of the other, breathing in between the sporadic urge to choke and keel over. Derek was useful at keeping Stiles from falling on his face.

Then Stiles came around the side of the house and saw his dad. He was a kid and that was his dad and Stiles didn't even notice the men handcuffed nearby. He ran straight for his dad and more or less crashed into him. He couldn't give a hug until someone cut the tape at his wrists but he could demand one as desperately as possible. His dad caught him up, not surprised by the sudden invasion, and held on tight. He said stuff but it was muffled by his shoulder and it probably wasn't anything Stiles could really answer to anyway. _Thank god_ s and _are you okay_ s and _don't disappear again_ s and Stiles really, really hoped there was a promise that some bastard was going to die, just somewhere in the mix. Stiles wasn't sure which bastard he wanted to die first but given the option and an angry werewolf, he could have seen his way to make the sacrifice. As soon as he could see, anyway; between the coughing and the relief - and his dad gave the _best_ hugs - Stiles' eyes were watering too badly to focus very well. When his dad pulled back, checked the bruises and cut on his face, Stiles coughed on him again.

"You okay?" He asked the question but he looked like he already knew the answer. Stiles shook his head.

"Wanna go home," he managed. His dad frowned at him.

"I think there's gotta be a stop first," he said. He started to grab at Stiles' wrist, like he was going to try to read a pulse, but he found the tape instead and swore out loud.

"Derek! Help!" It was more of a demand than a request but Derek was lurking nearby, attention already on them anyway. Stiles leaned on his dad as he held his hands out to the werewolf with the useful claws for tape-cutting. His dad checked his pulse at his neck instead.

"It'll be a half an hour before an ambulance can get here," Stiles heard his dad say, but he got the impression he wasn't talking to him. "Can you get him to Melissa?"

Derek looked to the row of hunters scowling up at them in various states of disrepair themselves. Sheriff nodded back toward Jordan. "That's why I've got a deputy. My kid's a different story."

"He's hurt, needs watched," said Derek.

"I'm not staying out here," offered up Peter. "One drives, one babysits, let's go."

"No, I wanna stay," said Stiles. His cough said otherwise and he felt like swearing. "Just stop-"

"I'll help," offered up a voice from not far away. Stiles cringed into his dad, surprised, and the swearing slipped out then.

"Dad, don't," said Jordan. Stiles blinked and stared at the stranger. The guy looked _maybe_ ten years older than Jordan. No way was that his dad. Stiles considered the possibility that he was hallucinating and actually grabbed his own father's arm, not willing to go crazy without someone helping him fight back.

"It'll be fine, Jordan. The trees should be fine until the fire crew gets here. I think Derek needs the help more than you do," the man said.

"That's not what I'm worried about," said Jordan. Stiles was certain now that the stranger was who Jordan had called dad and he stared in open confusion.

"JT's a big boy, Deputy. He can speak for himself," Peter called over. Jordan's dad - JT? - looked back at the cars.

"Exactly, Peter. I don't need your help," said JT. "So shut up and get in the car if you're going."

The man had just used the dad-voice on Peter freakin' Hale. Jordan let out a laugh but he didn't sound happy.

"Yeah, so _that_ didn't make me feel any better," he said.

"Peter's problems will wait," said JT. He held a hand out to carefully rest on Stiles' shoulder. "You won't, though, so what do you say? Let the alphas handle the hunters and we get the hell out of dodge?"

Stiles looked to Jordan but he was hard to read in the shadows cast by car headlights and the slowly burning cabin. Stiles felt his dad rub at his back, the slightest push toward JT. The smoke was still bothering him and he couldn't stop coughing. He just nodded and let his dad pass him off. He heard his dad giving JT instructions, make sure Melissa McCall gets involved - because yes, Scott was really who Stiles needed to have yelling at him just then, _thanks Dad_ \- and JT said he would stay until they showed up.

It dawned on Stiles then that Jordan's dad was an omega, like him. Jordan had told him half a dozen times over the past few weeks but it hadn't clicked, seeing a face too young to be Jordan's dad. It made sense then, the way JT folded Stiles into a sideways hug, set a hand to his head and just left it there. Not a drape over his back, no petting or placating like he had gotten all night. It was protective, and it felt safe, so Stiles let the man steer him toward the car. It was Derek's car and his friend shut him safely into the back seat.

 

***

 

In the unfamiliar backseat of the car, Stiles had a fight with the seat belt because his hands shook too badly to cooperate. He finally managed it, pulled out of the shoulder belt and curled over his knees with his forehead against the back of the seat, willing away the urge to cough. JT had climbed in the other side of the car and now ducked between the front seats saying something about air conditioning and airflow to the back.

"Why do I smell blood?" asked Peter from the front passenger seat.

"Stiles," said Derek. JT dropped to the back quick, set a hand to Stiles' shoulder to draw him away from Derek's seat.

"What's hurt?" he asked. Stiles shook his head and then stopped because it made him dizzy.

"It was just a fight," Stiles told him.

"This isn't just a-" Peter's complaint broke off into confused silence.

"Stiles, are you bleeding?" JT clarified the question. "It's better to get it taken care of."

Stiles dragged a little, stalling. Then he shrugged. "It was a fight. They bandaged it before I got dressed."

Up in the front, Derek swore.

"It was a _fight_!" Stiles repeated, loud enough that he started coughing again.

"You don't lose your _clothes_ in a fight," snapped Peter. "Did they-"

"Knock it off, Peter," interrupted JT. Stiles was already on edge and defensive and didn't like that he was getting put in another corner about stuff that Peter had no business nosing in to.

"No, okay?" Stiles said, trying again for loud to silence Peter. "The guy wanted me in a blue shirt and I _didn't._   I picked a fight and they had the _knife_."

The outburst effectively silenced the car. Stiles couldn't make his arms stop shaking and it was getting worse instead of better. He swore under his breath and crossed his arms over his aching gut.

JT set a hand to his shoulder. "Sit up, that cough says your lungs are working hard enough as it is. Don't apply pressure if you don't have to," he said. Stiles reluctantly complied.

"You said they cut the shirt off. Where were you cut?" JT asked, quiet. So Stiles pointed to his shoulder and the lines down his chest that were hidden by the blue shirt.

"I've gotten worse from hanging out with Scott," he said.

"Let him make sure you're not bleeding out," Peter ordered.

"Peter! Let JT handle it," argued Derek."Stay out of it or you're walking."

"He's not bleeding out. You two are just hyped up from everything tonight. Plus he's omega and you guys apparently tune in to us pretty well," said JT. As he talked, he pulled out a cell phone and used the flashlight to see past the darkness of the car to look for blood on the shirt. Stiles tugged the collar away to show him the bandages. JT nodded and put the phone away. "The cuts are fine."

"Pretty sure you're not a medic," said Peter, for some reason particularly dismissive of JT. "Your kind don't generally make it past a high school education."

That hurt and Stiles lurched forward in his seat, intent to beat on a werewolf. JT caught him instead and pulled him back.

"That was aimed at me, not you. Ignore him," JT said. He talked quiet, like he knew the men in the front seat could hear him anyway. "Don't provoke the werewolf."

Stiles stared at JT in disbelief. "Jordan told you about-"

JT shook his head. "Nope. Good to know he knows, though. He's kept pretty quiet. Do I need to be worried?"

"He's not a wolf," said Stiles. He was baffled and not sure if it was the fault of his shitty day or because JT really made no sense. "His arms were lit up... He does things with fire, or something..."

JT looked to Derek. "Jordan started the fire?"

"Technically," was all Derek would say about it. Peter was turned to face into the back and very focused on JT.

"If Jordan didn't tell you, who did?" Peter wanted to know. Stiles started coughing again and stole JT's attention briefly. Jordan's dad rubbed at his back and he sunk sideways to lean into it because it helped him breathe a little. When the coughing eased up again, JT remembered Peter.

"A woman named Talia," JT told him. "She found me when he was around five, told me what to look for, how to help Jordan if it came up. She didn't think it would because omegas' children are generally healthier, she said one spark would cancel out the other."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Derek wanted to know and Stiles was right there with him. He tried to ask but it came out as a cough. JT shushed at him so Stiles tried again. It was frustration on top of confusion and pain.

"Kid, would you be quiet before you hurt yourself?" grumbled JT.

"What about Jordan?" Stiles managed, stubborn.

"He's fine," said JT.

"What's that got to do with my mother?" asked Derek.

Peter glared out the windshield. "Your mother was a lying, manipulative-"

"Shut up!" Derek interrupted.

"No more!" JT talked over both of them. "All of you calm down. Not another damn word!"

The bizarre thing was that the demand worked. Peter looked murderous but he didn't say anything. Derek checked the rear view mirror and met Stiles' eyes before he calmed down. Stiles just stared in wide-eyed disbelief, tried to keep remembering to breathe.

"Thank you," said JT. "Change the subject if you have to but no more arguing."

"What does Jordan have to do with my mom?" Derek asked.

"Nothing," said Peter.

"Jordan's your cousin," JT said to Derek. "Your mom let me know what I needed to know to keep him safe. That's all-"

Derek seemed to momentarily forget he was driving because the car slowed down. "Are you kidding-"

"Oh holy god," Stiles managed, startling JT into worry.

"What? What happened?" he asked.

"Another Hale," said Stiles. "What is it with that stupid family-"

Derek snorted but didn't say anything while Peter glared back at Stiles for it. Stiles slumped over against JT's shoulder and the man tucked him into another careful hug. There was nothing at all fair about his life.

 

***

 

Because of the knock on the head and the bruise under his eye from the fight, JT wouldn't let Stiles doze off on the drive. When it was quiet, just Peter's seething and Derek's focused driving, Stiles almost felt like letting the exhaustion win. He faded in and out. It was sometime around 2am and he was safe for the first time in twelve hours, even if he did hurt. Being still and quiet made breathing easier anyway. Instead he tried to stay awake because JT kept asking simple questions, about school, about his friends, about his dad. He asked why Stiles shook so bad, when that had started up, and Stiles told him about the fight with his friends over the change in tracks.

"You're in a lot of fights lately," JT observed. "Jordan told me about the trip to San Francisco, then this one with your friends. It hit you hard, kid. You shouldn't put yourself through that."

"Nobody listens," said Stiles.

"They don't have to listen. You don't have to prove anything to them, there's nothing to win," JT told him.

"Apparently _you_ can't win fights so at some point self-preservation should kick in," Peter said from the front. Stiles started toward the arrogant werewolf in the front but JT soccer-mommed him into the chair. It accidentally hit where he had been stepped on when he was held down and very effectively made Stiles forget whatever Peter had been bitching about. JT had no idea what made Stiles curl up in another cough-attack and caught his shoulder to steady him.

“Self-preservation is more your thing,” Derek said, snappish and dismissive of his uncle. “Like with the fire. You didn’t do us much good there.”

“Let’s see, the last time I was in a fire? I spent the next six years in a coma. Not my favorite environment, and thanks for bringing _that_ up,” returned Peter. It made Stiles feel a little better to listen to them argue and he left them to it, hugged JT’s arm like a little kid would and let the other omega help keep him from keeling over to take a nap.

As Derek distracted his uncle with their usual annoyed banter, JT quietly told stories about the fights he had lost when he was younger. He even talked about the run-in with hunters that Jordan had told Stiles about, and he said he got lucky. He got out, like Stiles, with help from friends, and he hadn’t had problems since. He lived to get older and wiser from it. There weren’t as many problems now that he didn’t look like he was in his twenties anymore, and that was the drawback to omega genetics and the tendency to look younger than the number on the birth certificate said they should.

For Stiles, it meant another ten years of risking a repeat of the last few hours and he gave actual consideration to never leaving his house again. Maybe that wasn’t JT’s intended moral of the story, but after being treated like cattle at auction, he was hyper-aware of potential for risk. A different kind of self-preservation maybe, but he still didn’t want to go through the last twelve hours of his life ever again.

It caught his attention when Peter lowered his voice as he talked with Derek; it normally meant nothing good when Peter tried to go unnoticed.

“I think you should look into it,” Peter said.

“Good for you. I think it would be a waste of time better spent looking elsewhere,” replied Derek.

“This is how their kind make their money, Derek. It always has been. And then they use that cash flow to go after us. If the Argents had something to do-”

“If her family had anything to do with this, Allison would probably take them out herself.” Derek seemed perfectly confident in the quiet promise. Stiles wasn’t nearly as sure. It weighed heavier on his mind and he just wanted to take a nap. JT wouldn’t let him though, kept him awake another fifteen minutes until they were at the hospital.

Their arrival at the hospital was a whirlwind and Stiles didn’t remember any of it. Melissa wasn’t on duty then but she met them there, took care of the paperwork to get Stiles seen to. Derek wasn’t allowed in the omega wing and Melissa was a nurse but she technically wasn’t family, which meant that after the initial assessment, Stiles was supposed to be left to a room on his own in between tests and treatments. It caused a panic attack and worried the doctors so badly that they let JT stay. He had made a promise to the sheriff that he would stay with Stiles, and as an omega, he was allowed to keep it. Once the first round of tests came back and the coughing eased off, Stiles was allowed a sedative he felt he had more than earned.


	16. Chapter 16

The morning had been chaos. Miserable. Fucking. Chaos. Jordan had lost all patience and all sleep and he hadn't gotten more than a text message from his boss about Stiles. After the previous night, he knew he shouldn't have been at work but he was on the schedule and the sheriff was needed at the hospital more. Jordan was somehow or another his second at the station and when the Sheriff wasn't on duty, Deputy Parrish was the next top-dog. Which meant Jordan stood in the security office at the Beacon Hills Mall, supervising an incident he would have rather been _involved_ in.

Thanks to his werewolf sense of smell, Scott McCall had figured out that only two of the basketball players had locked Stiles in the boiler room. He had then tracked the players' scent back to the locker room and got a firm ID on them. It wasn't enough to stand up in court, but it was enough for Scott and Malia to turn into a couple of stalkers. They followed the kids to the mall that morning and picked a fight. A bloody one. But supposedly no werewolves were involved in the altercation. Somehow it was Coach Finstock who had managed to break it up and pin the kids down in the office. He was fine, not a scratch on him for the effort. Scott and Malia had healed if they had been hurt, which left two banged up basketball players.

From the looks of the boy Malia had gotten her hands on, it was unwise to mess with an angry female even if there were no claws in play.

"They didn't pick a fight," the boy complained in the office. He held an ice pack over half his face but still managed to glare at Malia with the other. "She attacked us."

"You took Stiles!" Malia growled back at him. She started to stand up and go after him again but Scott pulled her back down.

"Excuse me?" Finstock said, loud and surprised. Jordan heard Scott swear but he stayed quiet, only crossed his arms. Malia slouched in her chair. The coach looked from them to the hunter-minions on the other side of the small room and Jordan wanted to punch the kid with the smug grin on his face for it. He didn't because he was in uniform. The coach looked to him for an explanation.

"What is that idiot babbling about?" Finstock wanted to know.

"Stiles isn't going to want it going around the whole stupid school," Scott jumped in. His coach narrowed his eyes.

"Teachers talk to teachers, not idiots who pick fights in the freaking mall right in front of their teachers. Can I just remind you that you're one of the idiots, McCall? Cuz you are. I can't believe you did that-"

Rather than let Scott be vilified for doing what Jordan still wanted to do, Jordan interrupted the lecture. He motioned to the bloodier of the set of students in the room. "We've got these two on security cameras at the school harassing Stiles Stilinski. They locked him up in the boiler room and, coincidentally, a few hours later he was let out by a group of men we later caught trying to sell him off for an Omega Price."

The coach stared at Jordan like maybe he hadn't understood a word of the simple English.

"You're shitting me," Finstock finally said. Jordan shook his head.

The coach turned on the boys who had sold Stiles out to the hunters.

"This true?" he asked.

"Yes," said Jordan even as the boys said "No."

"He was hanging out at the locker rooms so we chased him off but that's it," said the one with the ice pack. He was the kid Jordan remembered very clearly watching hassle Stiles in the hall under the school. "Omegas don't have a reason to be there so we sent him back to the Omega Wing. Not our fault he didn't get there."

"Bullshit!" Scott glared across at the boys. Jordan set his jaw and shifted how he stood to break their eye-contact. He wasn't expecting when Finstock turned to Scott instead.

"McCall! Where were you? You and Stilinski have been attached at the hip for four years. Why weren't you helping your friend stay out of trouble?" the man asked. It was more of a demand, and Jordan didn't bother to interfere because he wanted to know the answer himself. Stiles had told him about the fight with Scott, but Scott's behavior the last day told a story that didn't match up.

"I was in practice, Coach. He's an omega, so he can't be there," Scott defended.

Coach Finstock waved his hands, dismissing the excuse. "Bullshit and shenanigans. He's your goddamn friend and a member of your _team_ and he can be wherever he damn well wants," the coach said. Jordan stepped back as the teacher paced the office, looking from student to student in obvious anger.

"You idiots want to pretend he's some special flower but he's not. He's been on the lacrosse team since freshman year, putting up with all you idiots, keeping up with you, even on weeks when the gods and the cosmos are all up in his man-parts and rearranging them on the inside, and you _pansies_ can't even come to practice with a _cold_."

The point was met with guilty silence - from all but Malia - and the coach wasn't impressed by the students on his teams.

"So you just rethink a few things, gentleman," the coach said to the boys who had locked up Stiles. "And you'll have plenty of time to do it because you're off the roster, both of you. The name of the game is teamwork and not beating up an omega because you think he's on your territory. There's no territory in sports and if you can't understand that, you don't play."

The guilty faces turned angry but the boys didn't say anything. Finstock turned to Scott then.

"And you accept the fact that you've got an omega for a teammate even if the admin idiots benched him," he ordered.

"I do get it, Coach," Scott said, sincere more than defensive. "I just was trying to stay away so he wouldn't get in trouble again. He's not an alpha and he doesn't know how to keep from pissing people off. He never had to learn the rules because he was always with me, and it nearly got him killed..."

The quiet then was harsh after the Coach's lecture and Scott closed off again, crossed his arms. Malia peered around from face to face before looking to Jordan for a shortcut to get out from under the weight of the tension in the room. Jordan had no fix for that because he was just as pissed off as Scott was. It was the coach who spoke up to break it.

"Stilinski wouldn’t have been killed. The kid's too hard-headed and stupid for that," Finstock said, not unkind and somehow fond. Jordan's irritation with the injured boys notched up a little higher. He cleared his throat with a cough.

"The sheriff's at the hospital with him right now," he said, instantly catching Scott and Malia's attention. Finstock looked over at him, frowning.

"Smoke inhalation, bruises, and cut up in a few places," said Jordan. Not that it was their business, but the coach was wrong. "He _was_ nearly killed."

The coach looked from Scott to the boys bruised and bloodied in a fight with a couple of supernaturally charged teenagers. He wasn't happy. Then he looked to Jordan.

"Deputy, I'm sorry. I can't- well I can’t seem to remember why I'm here. I showed up at the mall today to get a new jogging suit. Old one's lost a bit of the color, time for a younger model and all. But I'm not sure what I'm doing wasting time in the office."

Jordan grinned a little at that. "You were going to make a statement as a witness to the fight, Coach. I was just letting you finish lecturing your students first."

Finstock shrugged and waved it off. "I don't remember a fight. I think I'll just go back to my shopping. I've got better things to do with my Saturday."

The security guard at the desk by the door looked stunned as Jordan nodded to the coach and let Finstock walk away without even pulling out his notebook.

"This is bullshit," complained one of the boys. Jordan looked at him, one eyebrow raised.

"You're Markus, right? Last name Shields?" he asked. The teen nodded. "Did you call your parents yet?"

"Called my dad. He didn't answer," Markus said. Jordan nodded like he expected it, because he kind of had. He faced the pair a little more directly, momentary good humor gone.

"Your dad didn't answer because he's in lock-up at the moment pending kidnapping and arson charges," he told the pain in the ass who had single-handedly caused Jordan's very long, very bad day. The teen lost color under the nail-scratches and bruised jaw. "So I don't think I really want to wait around here for him to come collect you. How about the two of you quit your bitching and just go home?"

They didn't have to think about it very long. Both of the high schoolers stood up and shoved each other out of the security office. Jordan watched them leave before looking to Malia and Scott.

"Is Stiles really in the hospital?" Malia asked. Jordan nodded. Scott stood up.

"I'm gonna go see him," he said. Jordan caught his arm and held him back.

"Go home, Scott. He's in the omega wing. They won't let you in," he said. It was a little bit of a lie; family and friends could get in with family permission. But Scott was part of the reason Stiles was in the hospital in the first place and Jordan couldn't overlook that. "You aren't needed there right now. He'll call you when he's in the clear."

The teen balked, like he wanted to argue, but he didn't. He looked to Malia and then back at Jordan. Finally he nodded. "Right. Okay."

When Jordan offered them a ride back to their respective homes, there was again only agreement, though Malia was mad.

"I wanted to follow them home," she said. Jordan shook his head as Scott caught Malia's shoulder to be sure she didn't wander off.

"That's _not_ legal, Malia," said Scott helpfully.

 

***

 

Daylight filtered in through gray colored curtains, waking Stiles. He didn't recognize where he was at first but the elevated heart rate changed the pattern from the beeping machines behind him. Hospital. Right. He barely remembered getting to the hospital the previous night but he remembered the hospital. Then he coughed. He remembered that, too. He didn't remember the face mask but it didn't hurt to breathe so he left it on.

As he woke up a little more, he noticed his dad sitting in the chair off the side, against the wall and asleep. He considered not waking him for about all of two seconds.

"Dad? Dad-dad-dad-dad..." It was muffled by the face mask that Stiles had forgotten about in his relief and surprise at seeing his dad. He started to untangle from the mask and the heart monitor and the movement seemed to work. His dad woke up and promptly told him to settle down and leave the machines alone, even as he caught Stiles' wrists to guide his hands away from the technology he was hooked up to. Stiles traded for a hug and didn't let go until he remembered his dad was _old_ and maybe hunched over the hospital bed was bad for his back. And his eyes were watering and he wasn't sure what to do about that with a breathing mask over his nose and in the way.

"How are you feeling, kid?" his dad asked. He had a tissue in hand and wiped at Stiles' face for him. "Any better yet?"

With a nod, Stiles took over the tissue task. He hadn't actually taken full inventory of how he felt yet but his dad was there, he wasn't alone, so the other stuff wasn't important.

"What happened?" Stiles didn't even know how long he had been asleep, other than long enough for the sun to come out.

"That's a big question, Stiles. You don't want to worry about that just now," said his dad.

"You got the hunters though, right? The guy-"

"Arrests were made. We got the guys booked. Carrington made bail already." His dad didn't look happy about that. "But the hunters are still there, last I heard."

Stiles sagged into his pillows, relieved. That was a small win. Maybe they were richer than anybody had any right to be off profits from another person, but at least they weren't able to get at it from lock-up, they couldn't disappear. They couldn't go after Stiles or anyone else from a little barred box.

"And Scott's in a little trouble maybe but he got his hands on the kid from the basketball team," said his dad. "Parrish said it's the kid who locked you up. But we're still working on proving anything."

"What- Scott didn't do anything-" Stiles' protest quieted when his dad shook his head, held up a hand.

"Scott got in a brawl with the kid first thing this morning. He apparently tracked him down, started a fight at the mall with him and a couple other kids. Apparently Malia helped but Parrish wouldn't tell me much." The Beacon County Sheriff shook his head and let out a sigh. "This is all second hand, I've been here since six, but it sounds like a mess. Parrish is handling it."

That was all less than awesome news but Stiles nodded that he understood. "Jordan was pissed," he remembered, the observation random to even him. His dad gave a small laugh.

"We were all pissed," he said. Stiles frowned.

"JT wasn't," he pointed out.

"He was. Getting you here was more important," his dad told him. He was staring and Stiles scrunched his nose at an itch under the face mask.

"JT said it happened to him before," said Stiles. He was remembering more without thinking about any of it, distracted, and his dad didn't try to derail him from it. The guy just nodded.

"It happens more than it should. We got lucky, kiddo," his dad said. He caught Stiles' hand. Stiles nodded and hung on. His grip was weak, frustrating him by making him notice the slight tremors in his arm. Rather than deal with it, Stiles eased back into his own space and curled his arms up under the blanket. His dad noticed but didn't say anything. It felt like there was something his dad wasn't telling him, which only made Stiles more aware of the slow recovery from withdrawal.

"When can I go home?" Stiles asked. The small annoyance had made him take stock of what hurt and what didn't. For the most part, he felt okay. His head was a little sore, and the cuts on his shoulder itched, but as he lie still on the bed, under warm blankets, that was all he could notice. Breathing hurt like he had come down with pneumonia but the oxygen mask was probably there for that.

"Tomorrow, probably," his dad told him. He let out a breath, scrubbed a hand over his face. "The smoke inhalation is a problem they want to keep an eye on. And they said your white cell count is lower, other levels all out of whack. You're in withdrawal, so your system isn't recovering as fast as it should. They want to make sure it is just withdrawal and nothing more serious."

Stiles didn’t say anything to that. He knew it was partly his fault, that he had let it get so bad. He was just slow to catch on in the first place, he didn’t recognize what was happening. He would recognize it better next time.

"I didn't know," Stiles said, attempting to apologize for it anyway. "I was trying to fix it though. Scott wasn't there."

"This stuff with Scott- This kinda stuff... You gotta tell me, kid. We can tell the school to shove it and get you out of there if it's this big of a problem," his dad told him. "Homeschool-"

Tired of talking around the mask, Stiles experimentally pulled it away. He could still breathe so he tried talking again. "It's not. I just thought it was. I can figure out school."

"I'm not sure you need to go back. It's too risky. Things need to settle down," his dad said.

"I want to go to school," said Stiles, stubborn even if he was tired. "I'll figure it out."

His dad shook his head. “That’s what worries me here. You made yourself sick over all this. I didn’t even know what to look for. I thought you were having problems with the track, then Parrish and Derek said it was some blow up with Scott...”

“I just need to go home. I can’t stay here,” said Stiles. He was getting frustrated. “It’ll be expensive.”

“You getting sicker by leaving early will be expensive,” said his dad. “This trip is what we have medical insurance for. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m gonna worry about-”

“You worry about you. I’ll worry about where I spend money, son. You just get better.”

The problem was that Stiles was too aware of it to let it go easily. He remembered very clearly watching people exchange money for control of him, the man who paid the money was so close to walking out the door with him. Money entitled people to take things they wanted. He didn’t want to owe the hospital money, too. He didn’t want his dad owing anybody any money, either. It wasn’t fair how nervous it made him.

“The guy who made bail... is he going to go away?” Stiles asked. “Like, jail? Or just the hunters?”

“I haven’t had a chance to talk to the DA yet,” his dad said. “But as far as I’m concerned, we’ll throw everything we’ve got at him until something sticks. They don’t walk from this.”

Stiles nodded, relaxed a little, and his dad reached out to pull the mask back up over his face. “If nothing else, Derek and Peter are both pissed off over it. We can probably throw him to the wolves if we have to.”

It was a joke of course, the man was the county sheriff after all, but Stiles silently agreed. He had a pack, and there were some definite benefits to running with wolves.


	17. Chapter 17

Of all the people Stiles expected would maybe brave the hospital visiting hours to see him, David Whittemore was the last person on the list. Even ten hours after being checked in, it was hard for people to get in to see him, because of the circumstances that had put Stiles in the hospital in the first place, and he was an omega so it was limited even further. He was a few days from heat setting in and he had just suffered physical trauma and he was still showing chemical signs of withdrawal in the blood test, which all together meant no stressful social interactions. Family only.

Or, apparently, lawyers.

Until told otherwise, Stiles was supposed to breathe from a machine under a face mask. When Whittemore showed up, Stiles turned off the machine and took the mask off. He wanted to not be in the room at all but the mask was the best he could do to fake being healthy. Stifling a cough, he looked to his dad, confused.

"What-" but his dad waved him down, quieting him. The sheriff stood from his chair to meet the lawyer, formal but not exactly friendly. To Stiles' surprise, Whittemore offered a hand out to shake in greeting.

"How's he doing?" Whittemore asked.

"Better," said Stiles' dad. "He'll be fine."

Whittemore nodded, then looked over at Stiles. He seemed somewhat awkward about being there.

"Jackson heard about the incident already. He... Said to tell you that if you don't bounce back like you always do, he'll have to fly back and kick your ass," he said.

"Tell him they broke my phone so I lost everything," Stiles said. Not that there was a lot on there that Jackson would care about, just a video, but the suggestion that there might be something was enough to make Jackson's dad cringe. That was all Stiles cared about. Jackson's dad just nodded and returned his attention to the sheriff.

"Can I have a word with you outside about this?" Whittemore asked. It put both Stiles and his dad instantly on the defensive.

"There's nothing about this that you can blame Stiles for this time-"

"No. God no, Sheriff. I'm- this is terrible. What happened should never have happened. I wish it hadn't," said Whittemore. The silence that fell then was the byproduct of pure shock. Stiles' jaw dropped open, which was probably slightly rude but couldn't be helped. Since when did anybody related to Jackson see their way into an apology? And the guy really meant it, he wasn't behaving at all like the usual Mr. Whittemore.

"Yeah, we're all agreed there," Stiles heard his dad say. "So why is it you needed to see us about it?"

"Here?" Whittemore asked. He looked pointedly over at Stiles and back to the sheriff. "I don't want to upset the boy."

It took everything Stiles had to not break out laughing. Somewhere along the way he had slid into an alternate dimension. That was the only explanation for Whittemore standing in his hospital room somehow concerned for his mental health.

"He'll be fine," said the sheriff.

"I came to offer counsel, Sheriff. My professional opinion, at least," replied Whittemore. "Legal advice."

"Stiles will be fine," Stiles' dad repeated. "So he can hear your advice, too."

And so Whittemore huffed, frustrated and once again his usual disapproving self about something the sheriff had chosen to do. Stiles caught his dad's eye and the man gave a small smile for the return to familiar territory.

"Well, I would like to suggest you drop charges against Carrington and the kidnappers," said Whittemore. To his credit, he didn't look happy suggesting that either. He noticed Stiles' father's brow crease with slow anger and held up a hand to forestall it. "This is my legal background talking, Sheriff. My opinion as a father is completely different, but as a lawyer, I think you might want to consider it."

"I don't get it," said the sheriff. "I've got the guys on kidnapping and trafficking, not to even mention arson-"

"Arson is great, if you can prove it, go after them for the arson. But leave your son out of it, as much as possible. And don't press charges against Carrington," said Whittemore. "The man has a small _army_ of lawyers. There is case after case on the books and the judge always sides with the buyer as victim. Not the omega. Criminal charges will be met by a counter civil suit for breach of contract against the omega and whoever signs for him and you will lose."

The silence in the room then was a different kind of shock. Stiles looked from Whittemore to his dad, openly confused. That had been the one thing he was at least okay with in the whole thing; at least, in all the mess, he had taken four hunters out of commission. That made it worth it. Except now he couldn't even have that small win?

"Breach of contract? How?" his dad asked.

"The way it usually goes in these cases? Carrington can prove he paid money, as an omega price, for your son. Can you prove you don't have the private account in the Caymans his money was transferred to?" Whittemore looked expectantly to the small town sheriff, everyone in the room already knowing the answer.

"Of course I can't prove I don't own it," said Stiles' dad. "I don't have the account, I can't produce paperwork to prove that."

"Which leaves reasonable doubt in the mind of the jury on the criminal case, and makes it your word against his bank account ledger in the civil suit. He walks anyway and you end up paying legal fees for one of the biggest law firms in the country," said Whittemore. "Unless Carrington offers to settle and in most cases, the settlement terms are the omega they attempted to buy in the first place."

 “That won’t happen,” the sheriff said, shaking his head. The lawyer told him flat out that he was wrong. Stiles was used to Jackson's dad gloating, used to the man angry and out to stomp the tiny Stilinski family into the ground. He behaved a lot like Jackson, really, and that made sense to Stiles. Seeing the man pale and uncomfortable and genuinely disturbed to be talking about the legal system was completely foreign to Stiles. He wasn't sure if it was a prank or not. He knew he didn't like what he heard.

"Dad?" Stiles asked. He wanted some sign the lawyer was lying. But his dad was silent, had lost all color from his face and looked suddenly ten years older than he had a minute earlier.

"You're sure about that?" the sheriff asked Whittemore. The lawyer nodded.

"Lydia called me from the station, so I went to meet her. Carrington was getting his phone call in while I was there, so I asked the deputy who he had dialed. I know the law firm. They're based out of San Francisco. And Las Vegas. And Oklahoma City, _and_ Washington DC. I wouldn't take these boys on, Sheriff."

"They aren't boys," the sheriff replied, angry. "They are full grown adults who made the very adult decision to hunt my son and profit-"

"They also have the laws on their side, because the only opposing voice out of the lot of them will be an omega's," said the lawyer. "And while you haven't raised your son to adhere to the ways of the society he lives in, the society still exists around him. He has _no_ voice here."

There was no way to argue that. Neither of the Stilinskis tried. The sheriff just nodded. Stiles stared at his dad, slowly mentally losing it. That wasn't how the story was supposed to go. The bad guys were supposed to go to jail. They weren't supposed to get away with it. They weren't supposed to be able to do it again to someone else. Stiles watched his dad and waited, wanting some proof from the county sheriff -from his dad- that the world didn't really work that way.

But it did. He knew it did, which was why he had never wanted to take the Omega Track in the first place. He thought if he could just make it to graduation, he'd be fine. He could fake it until he was older and he could speak for himself. But apparently not. It still wouldn't work. His dad just nodded his head, confirming their understanding of how society ran their lives, and Stiles had to look away, at anything else. He found his own hands to stare at instead, resting on his lap over thin hospital blankets.

Maybe Whittemore was right, maybe they should have talked somewhere else. Maybe Stiles couldn’t handle it. He wasn't really clear on what was said after that. The adults were talking, alpha authority looking out for Stiles' omega interests, and he wasn't even supposed to be present for the conversation anyway. So Stiles tuned them out, lost in his own head.

He coughed a few times because it still hurt to breathe, but otherwise he stayed quiet. The doctors had told him just an hour earlier that if he hadn't healed by the time he hit his heat, the heat would accelerate it and he would be better by the second day. And the alpha doctor knew what he was talking about. That was all Stiles was supposed to pay attention to, wasn't it?

 

***

 

He wasn't sure how long his dad stood talking to the lawyer. Stiles didn't really mentally come back to the room around him until he registered his dad had sat down in the chair by the bedside again. But he didn't have the book he had been reading before. Stiles' dad caught his hand and held on, like he did when Stiles was a kid and needed a human leash to be sure he didn't chase after a dog or something and end up in traffic.

"Hey, kid, it's okay," his dad said, quiet. "We'll figure something out."

Stiles shook his head. He didn't see how it was okay. "I can't fix it. It's not just the school, is it? It'll always be like this."

"We'll figure out how to get around it. I'll have Sacramento come out, see if we can prove arson-"

"Dad. It wasn't them. Jordan did that. He got mad and... _Flame-on_ ," said Stiles. He lifted his hand in halfhearted illustration, with no fire crawling down his arm. "We've got nothing. Except me."

"And I'm glad for the latter and still working on the former," his dad said. The sheriff was just as stubborn as Stiles. It was some hereditary compulsion to beat their heads into walls. Stiles couldn't handle it just then.

"I don't want to go to Carrington,” he said, like somehow maybe it wasn’t already obvious. “I want him to go away. He paid them way too much money-"

"Then we'll pay it back."

"We can't! You can work until you're eighty and you'll never pay it back as it is. If we add in lawyers? No chance," said Stiles. He shook his head. "I won't do it. No way."

"Okay, kiddo." His dad didn't let go of his hand though. He was mad about the call, he didn't agree, but he didn't argue either. Stiles huffed and scrubbed at his hair, frustrated.

"Dad, look... I'm sorry. I keep screwing up at this stuff. I can't get it. I'm trying but I can't- I screwed up everything. I was supposed to be normal. This wasn't supposed to happen. Omegas are trouble, I'm this... Burden. I’m...in the way and expensive as hell and jeezus, dad, I’m not worth that much.”

His dad just shook his head, held on a little tighter to his hand. "You're not a burden."

"Not sure how you define it but I’m pretty sure I fit the description," said Stiles, tone dry and unamused. "I'm the one in the hospital, I'm the one pissing off a bunch of hunters, I'm the one with some jerk rich guy who paid an omega price who could come back and sue you for it. I got kicked off the alpha track. I got kicked off the lacrosse team. I can't go to school without a freaking bodyguard-"

"Hey-"

"No, Dad! It's not okay! Don't tell me it's okay, 'cause it's not."

“It _is_ okay,” his dad said, tone firm and not one to argue with. “You’re still _here_. Maybe a little banged up but you’ll heal-”

“You don’t get it-”

“No, I don’t get it, Stiles. I don’t get any of it and I never have, and that’s got nothing to do with you, son. That’s got to do with the world isn’t fair. All we can do is live in it, do whatever we need to in order to make things work out,” the sheriff said. He tugged on Stiles’ hand until he caught the hint and looked over at him. “I didn’t get you all the help you needed to do that maybe, but you’re not a burden.”

“I’m in the hospital again, Dad! Again, okay? Like four times in two years? And the doctors visits all in between, and like eight years of counselling for this crap. If I’d stayed an alpha this wouldn’t have happened. Mom didn’t know what was gonna happen, she thought I was gonna grow up like every other kid. I think I told her I wanted to be a lion-tamer or some stupid alpha-only job, and I can’t. They won’t let me. I can’t even tell people about the assholes that tried to-” Stiles’ words died off, his brain still not wrapping around the rejected notion that he had been sold off, bought and paid for, because that was just some horror story from the movies that didn’t happen to real people. Except it had happened, he had watched it happen, and he couldn’t tell anyone about it and have them believe him. “They’d believe me if I was an alpha. I mean, even Jackson’s got a restraining order out against _me_. And I wasn’t trying to _sell_ anybody, I was trying to save people-”

"Stiles, we can try. A lawyer talking doesn't mean he's saying anything worth hearing," said his dad. "He doesn’t know everything anyway. We can get this whole thing out there. Press charges and try to make something happen."

" _I_ was at the locker room looking for Scott. _I_ ran downstairs. _I_ didn't find help. I don't need a bunch of lawyers rubbing it in my face that I screwed up," said Stiles. Talking hurt and he felt like he was running out of breath just trying to make his dad understand. The machines monitoring his vitals were beeping and flashing to show the rising distress and it only frustrated him more to be tattled on by a computer.

"You didn't screw up," his dad said.

"You weren't there, so you don't know," returned Stiles. "And he's right. They're just going to blame me. That's all they've done for a month."

"I didn't need to be there. I know my kid," said the sheriff. And Stiles shook his head.

" _I'm not_ your kid. I’m _not_ what you and mom thought was gonna happen. Your kid's _supposed_ to be some alpha, like Scott, on the lacrosse team, a kid who can graduate and be a cop. I’m not _good enough_ to be that kid, just an ADHD headcase and an omega who can't hack it. It’s not fair and I’m _sorry_."

“This is you, Stiles! There’s nothing wrong with you! You’re my kid!” His dad seemed mad. “I shouldn’t have to defend my kid against _my kid_. Knock it off.”

“You’re normal! I’m not! Omegas are... wrong,” Stiles argued. He wanted understood and nothing was working. Just to make it worse, the door opened then and his dad kept quiet, silently steaming, but that didn’t mean he was trying to understand where Stiles was coming from. Stiles scowled at the door for the invasion and then stopped cold when he saw who had walked in. A tired and worn JT Parrish stood there, looking none too happy either, holding a couple to-go cups of Starbucks and looking between Stiles and his dad like he was asking for permission to be there. Stiles wanted to roll over and die suddenly. He had wanted to do that before, but saying what he had around Jordan’s dad made it _worse_.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“For what?” JT asked. It was one of those damned leading questions and Stiles wanted to glare at him for it because there was no way JT hadn’t heard him and didn’t know what for. He handed Stiles’ dad the paper cup of steaming hot drink and sat down in one of the chairs like he didn’t have a concern in the world. It was some kind of parental-conspiracy because even Stiles’ dad went quiet and looked to Stiles like he expected an answer. Stiles just shut his mouth and looked away from their half of the room, out at the hospital hallway beyond the glass wall. He was stubborn, too.

"I'm going to go out on a limb and guess your apology was for calling me a freak like you, huh?" JT asked. He riled Stiles' dad with the phrasing but Stiles only scrunched his nose and stared blankly at the blinds that broke up his view of the hall. JT sipped at his drink and waited out Stiles' quiet. The Sheriff of Beacon County wasn't quite as patient.

"It's bullshit," he informed the both of them. JT arched an eyebrow and considered it.

"Is it?" he asked. "It's not really bullshit. We can do something you can't. Our experience of life is different than yours because we are regularly experiencing it from behind a disconnecting wall of more pain than you have any reason to understand. People look at us different. People talk to us differently than they would talk to you. Assumptions are made on our behalf like we're children, incapable of taking care of ourselves. We are effectively treated as freaks. Freaks of nature or freaks within society, take your pick."

Stiles’ dad stared at JT like the man had just translated the Rosetta Stone or something equally foreign. Stiles’ jaw dropped a little as he watched the men. Someone got it. The guy knew. It was somewhere between a relief and terrifying; someone understood, but that meant that the problem was real and it wasn’t going to go away. For a moment he couldn’t find his voice even if he had known what to say.

“You’re not freaks,” his dad said instead, his frustration visibly up a notch as he looked from JT to Stiles.

JT nodded. “We’re not, but it can feel like it.”

Stiles raised his hand enough to point at JT like he could pin down the words to be sure everyone heard them. “That.”

His dad sat at the edge of the uncomfortable hospital chair, leaned forward to rest elbows on his knees, and his shoulders sagged. He stared down at the floor and didn’t say anything, but he looked like he wanted to. Stiles sunk into the pillows behind him because that didn’t make him feel any better either.

“That’s not going to change though,” JT said. He looked from the sheriff to Stiles. “It doesn’t matter how old you get, or where you get in your life, or who you marry or don’t. All of this is new to you now, it hurts because it’s in your face and you can’t ignore it. But it’s been like this as long as I can remember. It took me awhile to figure out, it’s got nothing to do with me. There’s more of us than we realize, looking around and dealing with the shit we deal with.”

Stiles’ dad looked up and nodded at that. “Three-quarters of the human population is one helluva large number to call a minority.”

JT nodded like he agreed but he kept his attention on Stiles since Stiles seemed only capable of staring. “We’re not the ones who are wrong. It’s the people who buy into it and try to shove it on us, it’s _their_ problem. Their _stupidity_. You want freaks, it’s the people who have to put a qualifier on a human being that allows them to treat each other differently. Those are the people who still have things to learn,” JT said. Stiles saw his dad sit a little taller, pointed at JT himself to copy what Stiles had done earlier.

“That,” he said. JT nodded, his attention shifting to his coffee cup.

“Yeah, that,” he said. And it all worked, for the most part. The extra perspective, from an omega and an adult and someone he felt he could trust, helped Stiles calm down. He couldn’t understand the world he lived in, but at least he was reminded that the problem wasn’t with him. All the same, what Whittemore had told them while JT was gone still bugged Stiles just as much.

“Except I’m still the one that can’t take on the hunters who tried to sell me off,” said Stiles after a moment to let it all sit in quiet. “I can’t defend myself, or anybody else.”

“You can, but sometimes you don’t have to, Stiles,” his dad said. “Sometimes you can trust the rest of us to help.”

JT’s expression went a little flat. “Does that mean you told him what you had to do this time?”

Stiles’ dad went suspiciously quiet and guilty. The relief Stiles had felt slowly faded back. “What? What happened?”

“Nothing we can’t get reversed,” said his dad. “It’s not something you need to worry about right now.”

“You don’t get to make up my mind what I’m gonna worry about,” said Stiles. He was a little braver on that front just because of what JT had pointed out. His dad glared over at JT and the man looked the slightest bit amused as he raised a hand to point at Stiles in turn.

“That,” said JT. “The kid’s got every right to know what and why. He’s been making that case since before I even walked in the room. I’m not going to just sit here and _not_ tell him.”

Stiles liked having back-up that people would listen to. He sat, quiet, and watched as his dad grudgingly dug into his pocket for his wallet. Then he took out a folded up piece of paper and handed it over to Stiles. When the paper was set out flat in his lap over the blankets, Stiles managed to find an entirely new level of confusion. It was a copy of a marriage license application with Stiles’ name right there on the line. He recognized the certifying signature on the page as his dad’s, but he didn’t have the first clue what any of it meant. Stiles couldn’t even read the signature over the line that was supposed to be signed by the spouse.

“That was our back-up plan,” his dad told him, a hand waved toward the paper. “If you’re already married, you can’t be married off without your spouse’s approval. The county office anybody tried to send a new license through would have had to have you present to confirm the new license request and they would have had to call in the registered spouse. If we lost you, that was how we would have found you.”

Stiles gaped at the paper, trying to wrap his mind around the realization that despite the fire, despite his friends rushing to the rescue, he had somehow or another still woken up married. “But how- I wasn’t even in the city...”

“Legally I can sign for you until you’re married,” his dad told him. “And as a registered matchmaker, Natalie can solemnize a marriage and get the papers pushed through. Now that we’ve got you back, we just have to file some new paperwork to get the whole thing annulled.”

“Do I get to sign _that_ paperwork?” Stiles asked. He was just a little bitter, staring at the signatures all around his name and finding none of them to be his. His dad nodded.

“Yeah, you’ll sign those,” he confirmed. Stiles felt uneasy but no less frustrated. The only printed name on the whole page was his. Even the address listed was his address. He shoved the page back at his dad.

“Who the _hell_ did I marry while I was gone then?” he wanted to know. If someone else could suddenly approve or deny anything official or legal in his life, Stiles definitely wanted to know if it was someone he at least trusted enough to sign for the annulment.

“Jordan signed it,” said his dad and JT at almost the same moment. Wide eyed, Stiles pulled the license back and studied the signature.

“It’s only temporary,” his dad said quickly. “It was just a patch-job to try to keep you _safe_.”

“Jeezus, Dad,” Stiles grumbled. “You made me a freakin’ Hale.”

His dad looked mildly offended. Jordan’s dad rolled his eyes behind his coffee cup, shook his head.

“I wouldn’t mention that to Jordan,” was all he had to say about it.


	18. Chapter 18

The hospital let Stiles out Sunday afternoon. He wasn’t coughing as often, though he still sounded like he was going to hack up a lung if he lost his breath because he wasn’t paying attention. He was feeling better and he was impatient so they let him leave. He wanted to go home and change, take a longer shower than the hospital bathroom could manage and scrub away twenty-four hours of stress and BS, but he wanted to make a report more.

“I don’t care if Whittemore’s got it all figured out, I want to make the damn report in case he’s wrong,” Stiles grumbled into his shirt as he climbed into it. His dad tried to help him and he waved him off. His shoulder was fine, or it would be anyway. The argument was enough and his dad agreed to stop at the station first.

Stiles walked out of the hospital in the clothes he had been wearing when he walked in; he didn’t think to ask his dad to bring anything from home and if the guy was too distracted to wonder when he had bought Stiles a silk shirt, Stiles wasn’t going to tell him where it had come from. He had put off making a statement and knew he needed to, but that didn’t mean he wanted to tell his dad about it. His dad couldn’t take the report, even as the sheriff. As an omega, Stiles couldn’t sign legal documents without his parent’s signature on the page to back him up, and acting as his son’s back-up was still the sheriff’s other-day-job.

They ran into a slight glitch, however, when Stiles sat down in the interview room to make his report. The sheriff had gone to his office and would be there to confirm the report once it was made, but he couldn’t be in the room with Stiles to influence or be influenced by the omega telling tales. It was just Stiles, and the detective who got assigned the case the day before, and a computer. The detective was new to the station and Stiles had only ever talked to him a few times over the last six months, which made things a little weird. And then the computer decided to screw all everything to hell.

“Uh. I think - uh...” Detective Redgrave stammered a little more, clicking through screens and all but picking up the laptop to shake it, like that would fix it somehow. “Hang on a minute. I think there’s a problem with the system.”

Stiles slouched in his chair and waited as the detective and his laptop went back out into the hall. The room was boring and blank, a little colder than he wanted it to be considering standing up too fast could cause a coughing fit. And he waited.

It was at least ten minutes before he got tired of waiting and went looking for the detective. He found the guy sitting at his desk in the bullpen, watching his computer screen like he was browsing Amazon or something. That was a little frustrating. Actually, after the weekend Stiles had spent getting dismissed and abused, it was maddening. He started to approach the detective, forced patience to hide a clenched fist at his side, and the door to the bullpen opened in a rush. Distracted, Stiles shied back on instinct and stared back at the invasion, wide-eyed and on alert. He saw Jordan Parrish walk in, hurried and intent on the sheriff’s office. Jordan looked a little rough, not quite his usual perfectly composed self. And he wasn’t in uniform. That was new.

“What happened?” Stiles stifled a cough, spoke up to catch Jordan’s attention. The deputy paused and set eyes on him. He was still very focused on whatever was going on in his head but he slowed down enough for Stiles to catch up to him. He coughed a little for the effort at being quick.

“Hey... are you okay?” Jordan asked. Stiles shrugged it off. He knew well enough they were in the station but he reached out and caught Jordan’s shoulder to tug him into a hug. It wasn’t proper and he didn’t really freakin’ care just then. Jordan had helped him out, big time, along with Derek. They weren’t pack, there was nothing saying he had to walk into a fight and burn down a house and whatever else had gone on Saturday morning. Because of the hospital, Stiles hadn’t even seen Derek since the fire. Jordan was the first of his friends that Stiles could actually get his hands on and he wanted a hug.

“Thanks, Jordan,” Stiles said, quiet. Jordan held on tight and nodded in reply. It made Stiles feel a little loopy, if he was honest. Instead he wiped at his eyes before pulling back. He scrubbed at his face to try to focus, shoved his hair back out of nervous habit. Jordan just stared at him, way too attentive to be casual, and Stiles tried not to blush. He coughed again.  
“What happened? You’re in a hurry... off-duty...” he asked. He flapped a hand lightly at Jordan’s shoulder to tug on his shirt sleeve that was definitely not his uniform. Jordan looked from Stiles to the sheriff’s office door and back.

“Your dad called. Said something about paperwork...”

Head back to glare at the ceiling suddenly, Stiles clapped both hands over his face. “Oh my gawd...” came out muffled. “I forgot. We- Dad forgot, too.”

“What?” asked Jordan. Stiles tried not to cringe as he looked at Jordan again.

“The papers... I- oh my god.” It wasn’t a panic attack but it was something, - confusion and frustration and damned if he didn’t somehow feel good about it at the same time though - and Stiles floundered around trying to find words. “You signed the papers for me. Now Dad can’t. I’m so sorry, man-”

Jordan actually blushed. “What papers?” he asked. “I mean, what does your dad need me to sign.”

“I wanted to file a report...” Stiles facepalmed again as he realized what the computer problem had been and why Redgrave had left him to the room by himself. “Oh my god.”

“You keep saying that. But I don’t think it’s helping when you say it that way,” said Jordan. Stiles barked a laugh and clapped a hand over his mouth. Jordan grinned at him and then quickly sobered. When Stiles looked back, Detective Redgrave was watching them without calling attention to himself around the screen of his computer. Stiles scrubbed the heel of his hand against his forehead, everything about his physical person nervous and jittery and annoying. He lowered his voice and tried again.

“Everybody’s gonna know you signed the papers, man. This place and secrets don’t mix... just... shit. I am so sorry...”

Jordan was definitely blushing then. Stiles winced, scrubbed at his hair, tried to get his brain to work again beyond absolute embarrassment.

“It was just to make sure we could find you,” said Jordan after a moment. “It wasn’t supposed to be permanent or anything. You weren’t there to ask about it. I mean, we can get it annulled when...”

As he spoke, nervous more than annoyed for all outward appearances, Stiles stared at Jordan. They stared at each other, really; completely mutual staring was definitely happening. Stiles was sure he was blushing because Jordan was and there was _no way_ he could outblush an omega.

“You maybe wanna talk about it first?” Stiles asked. Words happened without asking his brain first. It was a terrible thing and it happened all the time and then there it was and he couldn’t call the question back. “I mean... oh. my. God. I didn’t- I mean...”

Jordan suddenly smiled at him. “Yeah. I know.”

 

***

 

It seemed JT Parrish had a big mouth - or maybe it had been Derek or Peter, to be fair - because the longer Jordan sat in Stiles' immediate presence, the more fidgety he got. Stiles kept tugging on the dirty shirt he wore, too aware of Jordan and too aware of the fact that he was making a report to someone who worked for his dad. The rules were a little different since Stiles was listed as married; where his dad only had to sign that he agreed with the report, Jordan had to witness the report entirely, supervise the entire interview. The difference was daunting because it nagged on Stiles as to why. What about those omegas Jordan had mentioned seeing over the years in abusive homes? Did they have to file a report with their abusive spouse right there to argue with them? The system was jacked. But it was, all the same, a surprise when Jordan interrupted the already awkward interview.

"Excuse us a minute, Detective. We need to take care of something," said Jordan as he stood from the table. "We'll be right back."

Stiles blinked up at him as Jordan tugged at the shoulder of the blue shirt. Stiles stalled. Not like he particularly enjoyed telling the detective about getting his ass kicked in the school basement but he wanted to get the report over with. Jordan just tilted his head toward the door in a hint. Stiles reluctantly took it.

"What?" he asked in the hall. Jordan pulled lightly at the collar of the silk shirt.

"Why didn't you have someone bring you other clothes?" Jordan asked.

"It didn't come up?" Stiles shrugged it off, crossed his arms to close himself up. Jordan shook his head. He caught Stiles' hand in his to lead the way out of the bullpen. Stiles' jaw dropped and he looked around the office, blushing and hurrying to keep up so as to not make a scene out of the simple gesture. It helped absolutely nothing to realize Jordan dragged him to the locker room.

"Dude, are you _trying_ to just start everybody talking or- I mean, you just have to _work here_ is all..." Stiles managed. He was sure he was a bright pink because, no, in all practical reasoning, locker room private-time was not helpful toward the goal of annulling the wedding certificate before the _whole town_ knew there was one.

Jordan stayed quiet, the give-away blush on his cheeks too that made it clear Stiles wasn't the only one with a dirty mind when it came to locker rooms. They stood at Jordan's locker and Stiles watched as he dug through a stack of pressed and folded t-shirts on the top shelf. Then he pulled a black v-neck down and handed it to Stiles.

"You can borrow that if it'll help," said Jordan. "I've got some sweats in here too but wasn't sure- I mean, that's probably a little-" He trailed off, rambling but no less sincere. Stiles just stared at him again, the shirt scrunched up in his hand. Jordan seemed to mentally flail a bit because his expression was mildly distressed. " _Please_ change your shirt. I know where it came from and listening to you talk about it without it having been fixed already is possibly going to... break my brain."

Stiles didn't mean to but he smiled at the way Jordan phrased it. "Pretty sure if something broke your brain you would just heal again."

"Maybe but you haven't and it bugs me," said Jordan. "You're still human and they tried to take that away. You don't have to wear their stuff to make the report."

As Stiles saw it in that moment, he had two options. He could yield to the annoying over-emotionality that came from the first stages of heat to break down and cry in the face of the realization that someone else _got it_ , bringing the total to four people he knew for certain were on his side. Or he could break all the rules and kiss the guy because Jordan Parrish had just become Stiles' new favorite human and there was no reason not to let the man know it. Kissing was a lot more productive than being an emotional mess.

So he caught the front of the shirt Jordan was wearing, snuck into his space, and kissed him because Jordan leaned in rather than edge away. He even brought a hand up to hang on to Stiles as he returned the kiss.

They probably could have convinced each other to forget about the report entirely without saying a word after that. It took the noise of someone walking into the bathroom one door over to make them break it up for air.

"Gonna change the shirt. Go away," Stiles muttered, suddenly self-conscious. Jordan nodded and backed off a step to give him the space to do it. He also dug into the locker and found the promised sweat pants and Stiles did laugh at him then. Jordan just snuck past him, added another quick kiss to the cheek that made Stiles blush harder, and moved away to wait by the door.

Stiles was a mess of bruises under the shirt from the fight Friday night. Not to mention the two bandages from the cuts from the hunters' knife. He knew what to expect looking down at himself as he changed shirts. Based on the swearing from the door, Jordan hadn't. So Stiles kept his attention on the locker and hurried into the less offensive borrowed clothes. They felt baggy on him because stupid supernatural humans had stupidly _built_ bodies and it sometimes wasn't fair but Stiles would save that rant for another day and a hopefully more private location.

Instead, he got himself dressed and wadded up the clothes to throw them away. Then he collected a very pissed off Jordan and headed quickly back toward the interview room. He wasn't entirely certain Jordan should go back in given how angry he looked after seeing the bruises. Hearing about it wasn't going to make him feel any better.

"You gonna be okay?" Stiles asked outside the interview room door. Jordan gave a tense nod.

"Little bit pissed off but I'll keep quiet," he said. Stiles grinned at him as he backed into the door to let them back in.

"Yeah, well that's what you get for looking, Deputy," he said on a tease. He was rewarded with a guilty blush from Jordan that kind of made Stiles' day a little easier to handle in that moment.

 

***

 

Filing the report didn't actually make Stiles feel better. There was still a futility to it. The detective did his job, asked his questions, and he kept pissing off Jordan. Deputy Parrish would interrupt. He would direct the questions when the detective would give the brush off. Some of Jordan's questions were ridiculously on-point; he knew about Harrison, he knew about the name-calling and the fights in the hallway. He knew Harrison hadn't been in the fights but that he took advantage of them.

"He kissed you, right? The others were standing around yelling for it and he kissed you," said Jordan. And Stiles didn't know what to do with it because how _even_ did Jordan know that?

"Yeah... But I made him back off. And then somebody else decided to lock me up in the boiler room-"

"Who was that?" asked the detective, somehow beating Jordan to the question. Stiles glanced at Jordan on the off-chance he knew the answer. He didn't say. So Stiles shook his head.

"I dunno him. I think his jersey said Shields?" He almost laughed when Jordan nodded like that was the right answer. But Jordan kept quiet after that, the leading questions stopped and were replaced by only the questions the detective _should_ have been asking. Stiles noticed that he occasionally tried to brush things off. Like he didn't actually believe the story. The more it happened, the more Stiles caught it, the more he understood why Jordan was so silently frustrated by the guy.

By the end of the story, he more or less gave up. The detective put a piece of paper in front of him to sign and then Jordan had to sign it too. Stiles went back to feeling bad about that; it shouldn't be Jordan's responsibility to do anything for him. Stiles didn't want to be anybody's "responsibility" except maybe his dad's. But Stiles still figured his dad was his responsibility, too, so he could tolerate the mutual pain-in-the-ass opportunity of the situation. But he didn't say anything, just left the room to escape the detective's disapproval.

When he and Jordan got back to his dad's office, Stiles was surprised to find JT Parrish in the chair in front of his dad's desk, waiting and being perfectly social with the sheriff again. They had spent all day Saturday at the hospital together, babysitting Stiles, the both of them being annoying dads about everything Stiles said or did. Now it was Sunday and they were plotting his demise by deciding that everyone was going to dinner together.

"Since you're married and everything, might as well get to know the in-laws," the sheriff said. It was a joke of course, because Stiles knew his dad had promised every intention of getting the annulment papers on Monday. And Stiles knew he should let them be filed and realistically he knew they would be. He had known Jordan for a year, and they had only spent any kind of time around each other since the rescue-mission to San Francisco not quite a month earlier. That wasn't enough time to sort out a _marriage_.

But then again, Stiles was an omega. Most of his classmates had a month or two of being courted by a stranger before they were engaged. Stiles and Jordan were like a couple of pros by comparison, even if they knew hardly anything about each other. Stiles figured he had a good idea on the important stuff. The distracted thoughts weren't helped along at all by the fact that he bumped into Jordan as they walked out of the station with their dads and Jordan caught his hand again. Stiles couldn't help but smile at that.

 

****

 

After the station, the Sheriff and Stiles collected the jeep from the school lot and Stiles went home for his own clothes. His dad followed but he didn't hover. Then they met Jordan and JT at the pizza place. When they got there, Stiles felt like being in Jordan's space and caught at his hand again. It seemed to be a welcome invasion and Jordan smiled at him. Stiles' dad raised an eyebrow about it.

"What's this?" he asked mildly. Stiles shrugged as Jordan's smile faded just a little.

"I bought him _coffee_ last week, too," said Stiles. Jordan spluttered to assure his boss it wasn't as lecherous as Stiles' tone made it sound. Stiles added, "You're the one who signed _my_ name on things. Don’t blame me."

The coughing fits that had kept him in the hospital now hit only randomly. The flustered look on his dad's face then made Stiles laugh so hard he spent the next five minutes fighting a cough. It didn't get much better when Derek showed up and joined them at their table. Stiles pounced on him to hug his neck because Derek was half the reason he was still alive after a house tried burning down around him and Derek didn't get enough hugs as a general rule.

If he was honest, Stiles felt a little loopy, like he was drunk, but he hadn't had any alcohol in weeks. It was the _happy_ buzz he got from drinking, though. He shoved pizza in his face in an effort to sober up before he said something completely wrong and everybody abandoned him.

Which somehow reminded him of school and he interrupted something his dad and JT were talking about to ask Derek if he was taking him to class on Monday. By his math, that was the next day. "Oh... Shit. I had homework," came the realization after that.

"You're kidding, right?" asked Jordan.

Stiles shook his head. "About the homework? No... For Spanish. But I don't remember what I needed to do. Think it was just a journal-"

"You aren't seriously going back to school-" began Jordan. He glanced at Stiles' dad and Derek for back-up but quieted when JT gave him a look. "It's a bad idea."

"I'm going to school," said Stiles. "Dad and I already sorted that one out. I'm going. Those assholes aren't getting the satisfaction."

Exactly which assholes Stiles meant, he wouldn't say because he was being glared at enough for the loud declaration that they were assholes in the first place. Derek just shook his head at him. He looked over at Jordan.

"Yeah. I'm taking him to school tomorrow," he said. Stiles was just buzzed enough to take high offense.

"I'm not six or something. I can drive. I can take myself to school," he said.

"Not for the immediate future," said his dad. "We already got it fixed with the school. He goes or you don't. That's not new."

It wasn't new. Derek had gone to Spanish with him for six classes so far. So Stiles settled down about it without worrying over it. "I'm going to school," he told them.

JT was still looking at him funny. "Eat your food," the man ordered, like Stiles wasn't already working on it. He stood up then and Stiles frowned at him for taking away his soda. He had food in his mouth already though so he didn't say anything. When JT came back, he set a cup of chocolate milk down where he had stolen the soda from. It seemed a fair trade so Stiles let him live.

For some reason, Stiles didn't really remember much of the rest of the night after that, but he got home with his dad somehow.


	19. Chapter 19

Monday morning, Stiles woke up feeling hung-over. It was not his favorite way to start the day, groggy and headachy and squinting. His dad came in to make sure he was ready to go and Stiles scrambled to give him a hug before he ducked back out of the room.

"Feeling better?" his dad asked.

"My head is trying to lobotomize itself and dissect my retinas at the same time," said Stiles. "Define _better_."

"Are you breathing?"

"Check."

"Are you still coughing?"

"Check."

"Do you still think N'Sync is the greatest band that ever lived?"

That was the most bizarre symptom-check question that Stiles had ever heard. He pulled back from the hug, even though it made his head hurt a little less, to squint at his dad.

"Are _you_ feeling okay?" he asked, just to clarify. His dad nodded.

"I'm great. You're the one who tried jumping on the hood of the car to belt out _Bye bye bye_."

That was news to Stiles. Very bad news. "I did that? Are you kidding-"

"No joke. You were out of it."

The next newsflash was that his dad wasn't taking him to school, his ride was already waiting. And as if that weren't bad enough, so was his new shadow. Stiles started to protest but his dad didn't want to hear about it.

"You said you wanted to go back to school. This is the rules," his dad told him. It was the tone of voice that said no-arguing but it wasn't like Stiles ever actually listened to that anymore.

"The idea behind going to school again at all was to keep the jerks from talking and gloating and thinking they got away with anything," Stiles argued. "Maybe I can't take them to court but I can flip them off at school. No babysitter-"

"You've got a bounty on your head until we sort this out, kid! A hundred grand is a lot of money and he already spent it. We don't know what the guy will do since you can't file for marriage and until we know he's walking, this is how it is," his dad said. That got Stiles' attention.

"But what about Jordan?" he asked. "The annulment. He needs his life back-"

"Until this is sorted, you're part of that for him, Stiles. At least on paper," said his dad. The sheriff didn't look exactly happy about it but it was the happier alternative to pick from. "And it looks like the two of you get along just fine so I don't think you really have a problem with him being part of ours for awhile."

Stiles shut his mouth, argument dead at that. He really didn't.

His dad told him to get dressed and have a good day, showing a surprising amount of faith in his relief-team for someone paranoid enough to have employed one. Then the sheriff headed off to do his sheriffing and Stiles realized he had over an hour to kill before class started. That was annoying. He stared at his bed and gave the blankets some serious consideration. Breakfast was probably smarter, but his head still hurt like he had gone on a bender the night before. He hadn't done anything more than go to dinner, in public and with his dad. It was weird. Stiles decided to solve it with a glass of water instead of sleep and he found clothes to change.

He lost five minutes looking for his backpack before he remembered it had been torn apart by hunters two days earlier. That caused a mild panic, nothing he couldn't handle but it stressed him out and he had to remind himself to keep breathing. He was safe at home. There was nothing to worry about in his room. All the same, Stiles left his room in search of company or a baseball bat, either one.

What he found in his living room was an odd combination of the two. “What the hell-”

Jordan, not even in uniform, lurked at the window like he was nervous and guilty about something. And more bizarre than that was the big black wolf that had taken over the couch like he owned the place. Stiles wasn’t sure where to start with his shock. He managed to point at Derek though and Jordan made a good guess.

“Your dad got him cleared to go to school with you,” the deputy reported helpfully. “The high school and the college class.”

The wolf tail wagged. Stiles gaped.

“And I’m taking you to school and picking you up,” Jordan added. He seemed somewhere between embarrassed and smug about it. Stiles looked over at him and the man smiled. He was definitely smug about it. “And your dad wanted to be sure it was clear that Derek’s the chaperone. So maybe keep your hands to yourself because I don’t want bit since I’m the one who can heal up again.”

Stiles looked from Jordan to Derek, expression flat. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

The wolf yowled at him in an inside-voice and huffed in obvious disagreement. Stiles looked from one to the other again before he reached out and caught Jordan by the hand to tug him out of the room.

“What? I agree with them,” said Jordan. He wasn’t really defending himself against being dragged away and there was no fight about getting into the kitchen. Where Stiles closed the sliding pocket-door to separate the kitchen from the dining room. “Until we know what’s going to happen from this weekend, you’re not safe and if it’ll help-”

He paused as there was a scratching on the closed door. Stiles grinned at him, smug. He held up a hand, wiggled his fingers.

“There’s an obvious flaw in the logic behind appointing a chaperone who lacks opposable thumbs,” he pointed out. He was quite pleased with himself. Even Jordon was amused. The pair still stood in front of the closed door and Stiles angled a little closer. Jordan moved to match and for a moment, Stiles thought that maybe he was going to have a really _awesome_ morning. Then the door rattled again and slid open, still damningly close to the pair flirting in front of it. Stiles blinked over at where Derek stood just on the other side of the doorway. Naked as the damn day he was born. Oh _jeezus_. Derek held up both hands, fingers and thumbs moving.

“There’s an obvious flaw in assuming I don’t know how to open doors,” he informed them. He nodded dismissively toward Stiles. “Go get actual food for breakfast. Leave the deputy alone.”

Stiles scowled, rolled his eyes as he turned to go do as he was told. Jordan stayed by the door, giving Derek the side-eye for the nudity. Derek waved toward Stiles again.

“At least make him wake up first. I could smell the morning breath from out there,” Derek said.

“Oh ha ha,” returned Stiles over his shoulder. “Get your junk outta my kitchen.”

Jordan nodded. He self consciously tugged at his jacket collar as he looked at Derek. “Seriously though, is that just... normal now? Totally comfortable with the locker-room dress-code in the _everywhere_?”

Derek shrugged. “It’s a little less drafty with a fur coat but same thing.”

Slamming a box of cereal down on the counter, Stiles glared over at them. “With the coat or without, doesn’t belong in the kitchen.”

“Yeah, I’ll worry about it when the Department of Health threatens to shut down your dad’s kitchen,” replied Derek. “And I know how your brain works. _You_ would have done worse.”

Stiles blushed. He couldn’t exactly argue without lying and Derek would just call him on it anyway. _Jerk_. Trying to hide behind a bowl of cereal, Stiles ate his breakfast so he would stop arguing with his babysitter.

After a moment of frustrated silence, Jordan cleared his throat with a polite cough. “Uh. Derek. I just need to clear this up. You don’t plan on using that trick at the school. Fur coat stays _on_ there. Right?”

Stiles nearly choked on his food laughing at the annoyed glare Derek aimed at his friend for the question.

 

***

 

There were no other students out in the school parking lot but as his escort drove them to the school, Stiles still dreaded walking into the rumors the weekend would have started. He could practically hear the rumors all around him in the silence the second he stepped foot on the campus. Jordan had to get out to let Derek out of the back seat and he stopped to check in with Stiles, chaperone or not.

“You okay?” he asked. Stiles took a deep breath and nodded. School was daunting but Jordan was in his space, a nice booster-shot against the worry about lurking hunters. Jordan made it better by smiling and Stiles smiled back. It got him kissed right there against the car and, if they had arrived ten minutes later, the scene would have started a brand new round of rumors going. Stiles wouldn’t mind that so much at all. As it was, however, they were early for the Omega Track and the Alpha Track would be in their first period for another twenty minutes too, so the only witness to the impropriety was a wolf. Derek-the-wolf bit the corner of his jacket and dragged him off toward school before Stiles was really ready to leave Jordan’s space.

“You are like, my least favorite person right now,” Stiles reported. He kept quiet though, aware of their surroundings and of people staring every so often. It was probably the fact that he had a wolf walking next to him that drew most of the attention. Kissing the deputy might have had something to do with it. He had to convince himself none of the loitering Alpha Track kids knew what had happened over the weekend. A self-conscious cough hit and Derek _thwapped_ at him with the end of the leash he carried in his mouth. He had control of his own leash and Stiles had no intention of ever walking Derek Hale on a leash, but the leash and collar was part of the requirements of the school. There was even a dog-tag with the Sheriff’s information. But the whole thing couldn’t get more surreal if it tried.

They were there early for the Omega Track because Stiles had requested a stop at the store first. Jordan had judged him seriously hard when Stiles walked into the store and bought baby diapers off the shelf without the slightest reservation and all Stiles could tell him was that he was trying to prove a point. He had written a paper on the stupid baby diapers, he was going to back it with science and let the child-care center do their own experiments. Rather than carry diapers around all day, he dropped them and the paper off with Mr. Vecchio in the center and he and Derek headed quickly for Malcolm’s class before Vecchio could question him on it.

At Malcolm’s class Stiles found himself besieged and Derek the wolf was actually a useless guarddog. It was a stark contrast to the rest of the school, where Stiles had walked fast out of sheer paranoia from the looks a few people gave him. The omega kids were in his face, hugging his neck, petting his hair - _shit he’d forgotten to style that!_ They were doing him a favor; he would blame _them_ when Malcolm glared at him for not brushing his hair - and there was a lot of general cooing making sure he was okay. It spooked him a little and he started coughing, out of breath, and that made his classmates that much more worried about him. Meanwhile, Derek sat like a dumb lump on the carpet on the other side of a wall of teenagers. He was just as baffled as Stiles was. The difference between Stiles and the wolf though was that when the wolf barked, the crowd listened. His classmates backed off and Derek snuck back to Stiles' side.

Later, Shawn caught Stiles up to the rumors. Kidnappings tended to make omega families paranoid so the class was thinned out significantly thanks to students being kept home. The principal had notified the whole track of the missing student on Friday and another memo went out when Stiles had been found. All the same, Shawn looked as ragged as Mrs. Malcolm did about the whole thing. The guy was bigger than Stiles, like Derek and Danny were bigger, but over the last month Stiles had figured out that part of that bulk was "baby weight" that Shawn didn't talk about much. It worried Stiles that he had stressed the guy out when he already had enough on his plate. He apologized for it at the end of class and Shawn waved it off.

"It's not your fault," said Shawn.

"Maybe not but usually it is, so it sucks that you had to worry about it. They shouldn't have said anything to anybody," said Stiles. Derek snapped at him as an editorial commentary against his paranoia but Stiles just ducked through the classroom door a little faster to dodge. Shawn followed after, giving the wolf plenty of space.

"What if we could have helped somehow? If we knew somebody who knew something. They had to tell us," said Shawn.

"And they had to tell you in case one of you guys were next on the hitlist, I know," said Stiles. "But it still sucks."

"Yeah, but you're okay, right? So everyone'll get over it," Shawn assured him. Moving to stand out of the way and free from the traffic, Stiles nodded idly, looked around the hall at the students flooding from room to room. Derek took up a defensive position between him and the other kids and Shawn waited with them. If he thought anything of Stiles needing a moment to put his back to a wall, he didn't say anything. Stiles appreciated it.

"I'm a little weird, but I'm okay," he said.

"You're always a little weird," replied Shawn. Oh _ha_ , funny guy. Stiles rolled his eyes.

"No, this is _weird_. I went to dinner with dad and some friends and I guess it was like I got drunk. But I didn't drink anything and I was with my dad so it's not like _they_ drugged me," Stiles said, quiet despite the crowd. "What's stupid is I remember everything from Friday but I don't remember anything after 7pm last night until 7am this morning."

"So they drugged you? On Friday, I mean."

It was off-topic and ruffled feathers a little but Stiles shoved down the irritation. Shawn was curious and worried, not jumping to conclusions he was pretty sure everyone else already had. Stiles shoved away from the wall to get to class then.

"Yeah, but it was gone in like an hour. I got worse at the hospital. But this was like... I don't know, like I was drunk. I just don't remember it."

They were in Phillips' class a moment later and Stiles dumped his stuff down on his desk. Shawn was more careful about it, like he was distracted and thinking.

"You're off withdrawal now," he said after a moment. The bell had rung and everyone was quieter because Phillips usually started class on time, so Shawn just kept his voice down. It was still a surprise that he hadn't dropped it. Stiles stared at him.

"Yeah, I guess but how-"

"You spent like two weeks shaking like a leaf, man. It was noticed," replied Shawn.

Stiles backhanded him in the shoulder. "Why didn't you tell me? I was messed up-"

"I figured you knew. What with you being the expert and all," said Shawn, deservedly smug.

"Fine," said Stiles. "But I wasn't ever _loopy_ going through that stuff."

"Nope, but your body was kind of starving itself for two weeks. Then you have this bad thing happen and go right back to family and friends? It's like a flood. You OD'd on the good-stuff," said Shawn. "Too heavy on the endorphins last night around your family and nothing made it into long-term storage. You had the attention span of a _gnat_ and can't remember _shit_."

The swearing was proof Stiles had rubbed off on Shawn and it also was badly timed. A girl one seat over heard it and stared, and Mr. Phillips had noticed, too.

"There a problem, Mr. Echart?" Phillips asked. Busted, Shawn scowled at his notebook and Stiles sat up a little taller. He coughed to play up pity points and started to take the blame since it was his fault anyway, but Shawn beat him to it.

"Nope. I was just explaining withdrawals to Stiles," said Shawn.

"Mr. Stilinski?" Phillips corrected.

"Yeah, Stiles," said Shawn. Stiles' jaw clicked shut, too surprised at the stubborn act of rebellion to know what to say to salvage Shawn's scholastic reputation.

"Mr. Echart, are you feeling alright?"

"Yeah. But he asked to be called Stiles weeks ago and I think after the weekend he had, I can do as he asked," said Shawn. The room stayed quiet and Stiles caught on to Derek's collar to fight the sudden urge to run from the room. Everyone was looking at him. Phillips was only barely not glaring at him, but he seemed to have been naturally blessed with a bad case of resting-bitch-face anyway. Derek grumbled as a subtle reminder to the imposing teacher that he was looming over his students in front of a guard-dog. Mr. Phillips' attention settled on Stiles.

"You would rather be called Stiles? Instead of the more respectful-"

"Yeah. It's my _name_ ," said Stiles.

Phillips considered it. Then he looked around at the class.

"Mr. Echart has the right idea. When someone has asked to set aside simple formality, the respectful thing is to oblige them, as long as you’re comfortable with doing so," said Mr. Phillips. Stiles got caught staring like an idiot when the teacher turned his attention to him. "So, is it Stiles or Mr. Stilinski?"

"Stiles," came the hesitant report.

"Alright, Stiles. Please keep your questions quieter unless you plan on discussing it with the rest of the class also."

The request was reasonable, so Stiles nodded his promise. To his absolute shock, he was _Stiles_ again for the rest of the day.


	20. Chapter 20

By lunch, Stiles wanted to go home. He jumped at loud noises, hated the hallway and the press of students around him, and the bathrooms were the high school equivalent of a haunted graveyard where only those doomed to die first in the horror movies would dare tread. Even with a wolf babysitter it took a lot of effort not to bail. Derek dragged him toward the cafeteria.

Shawn walked with them, even offered to save Stiles a chair at the table with his friends, which wasn't usual. The guy had changed his outlook on Stiles' stubborn streak since that was probably the only reason he had survived hunters. It wasn't a slight or some kind of front; Shawn was being protective, just like everybody else. Stiles had a new friend for the first time in ages and this one didn't want to kill him, which was always a plus.

He had to rain-check the offer though. He needed to settle things out with his friends on the Alpha Track before he lost them to their classes. Shawn accepted that easily enough, but he pointed out that the lunch overlap was short. So he stuck it out with Stiles and Derek the dog so Stiles would have human company when his friends left. He figured Shawn was secretly psychic or something since the guy already knew Stiles' friends wouldn't stick around after the bell. Stiles didn't know what he was walking into, but he figured the bell schedule would work in his favor, as whatever awkward happened would be ended when Scott left for class. Stiles still had to try to sort out where he stood with his friend.

He wasn't expecting it when Scott pounced on him the second he saw him. Even Derek was surprised and shied over from the attack. Stiles got his neck hugged and had only seconds to recognize it was Scott first. The heart-attack was mild and soon passed in favor of returning the hug.

"Sorry I didn't answer when you called. Somebody broke my phone," Stiles said, words muffled by his friend's shoulder.

"Yeah, well. You told me to call. I was just following orders anyway," said Scott.

"Jerk," said Stiles. It was as close as he would ever get to letting Scott know how much mental pain he had started just by being an asshole. He pulled back and shrugged, anxious. "I wanna talk after school though, alright? Don't ditch me or anything this time."

Looking at least a little chagrined, Scott nodded. "Got it. Meet you at practice?"

"Not so wild about that idea, actually-"

"Shields and Callen got kicked off the basketball team. And nobody on our team has their problem," said Scott quickly. Stiles shook his head.

"Yeah, I'm not sure that makes me feel any better."

"So take Derek and just meet me at the field. It's just practice. Nobody'll mess with you," Scott promised. Stiles didn't really trust it, considering even Scott was a huge threat to Stiles' personal mental health and safety at the moment.

"You want company?" Shawn offered. "I'll go."

Stiles looked over at Shawn, surprise carefully hidden. The guy was pregnant and sticking his neck out on a potential chopping block if the last time Stiles was around the jocks was any history to go by. Still, he thought it over. Then he looked back to Scott and nodded.

"Yeah, okay. I'll see you after school. At the field."

The bell rang then. Liam packed up like usual but the rest of Scott's table hesitated. Scott still stared at Stiles.

"Are you okay?" he asked. "Like, really okay?"

Stiles nodded. "Derek and Jordan got me out."

It hadn't been intended to be a slight against Scott's alphahood but he seemed to take it as one, his shoulders hunched a little. Stiles didn't bother to correct it. They still had some things to get cleared up and Stiles wasn't ready to forgive yet.

"I've got an escort now though," Stiles told him, an effort at middle ground. "We're still working on the details but for now, you're off the hook. Not your issue."

Scott went bug-eyed. "Derek?"

"No," said Stiles. He rolled his eyes and tried to dismiss it. "Technically a Hale but no, not Derek."

Scott looked automatically to the clueless Malia standing nearby. Stiles paled a little.

"Not her either," he said quickly. "It's a long story. I'll tell you later."

"After school," Scott promised. Kira walked up then, holding Scott's backpack. Allison and Isaac weren't far behind. Stiles nodded.

"After school."

Scott beamed at him with his stupid, puppy face. Kira gave him a hug and then latched onto Scott again as they left. Allison even hugged Stiles' neck, whispered that she was glad he was okay, and then followed after the others. Malia still stood in front of Stiles as the second bell rang.

"Can I give you a hug or will it make you mad again?" she asked. Stiles almost felt bad for the times he had snapped at her over the last few weeks. It wasn't like she understood what everyone's hang-up was. She just followed Scott and tried to keep up with the human species in general, the more complicated dynamics tended to go right over her head.

"Sorry, yeah, it's fine," Stiles said. He reached to give her a hug and Malia pounced on him. "Just don't pet me."

Malia's hands thumped against his back like she had nearly been about to use what Isaac taught her. "Sorry," she said. Derek woofed at her and Malia let go.

"Right. Gotta go to class," she said. Stiles had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing; it would figure that she could understand Derek in wolf form. He let her walk off and then looked to Shawn. He realized then his friend had just missed out on seeing his fiancé at lunch and he started to apologize but Shawn shook his head.

"Nah, it's fine. I'll see her tonight. We're good," he said. He paused and then asked, "Feel better?"

Stiles thought about it and then shrugged. "Yeah. Maybe."

 

***

 

As the day got longer, Stiles relaxed a little. There was a track record for the day to match the one on Friday. He made it a whole day at school without getting jumped by the jocks or the hicks or the skaters. He didn’t hear any slurs aimed at him, he didn’t get cornered in the bathroom or chased down to the basement. None of the other omegas carried handguns on school property like the hunters did. Stiles had a werewolf babysitter so really he was the only one with a lethal weapon in class. He felt alright about meeting Scott at practice. Shawn still tagged along, but Stiles figured that was more out of curiosity than concern. How often did the guy really get to go a practice for anything if his girlfriend wasn’t on a team? She didn’t really seem the sporting type.

Stiles steered clear of the locker room and gym, walked with Shawn and Derek directly to the field to wait. They didn’t have long before the team showed up. Then Scott crashed onto the bleacher bench next to Stiles.

“You alright?” he asked. That was just a little annoying and Stiles shot his friend a suspicious look for it.

“You asked me that at lunch,” Stiles pointed out.

“Yeah. But that was at lunch,” said Scott. “It’s been a busy week, man. I don’t know what’s happened between then and now.”

“I went to class. You went to class. We met up here... pretty standard,” said Stiles. Scott’s hopeful smile faded and Stiles rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Go do practice. I don’t want coach yelling at me, too.”

“Yeah. But I’ll be back in between-”

“Scott. Jeezus, just get your ass on the field,” Stiles replied. He backed it up with a wave toward the field in question. Scott stared at him a moment but he gave up, stood and turned to leave the bleachers. He stopped when the coach showed up, hands on his hips and his chest puffed up.

“Stilinski!” Finstock bellowed.

“Yeah, Coach?” Stiles called back. He worried for a second, not sure what he had done to piss off a teacher he wasn’t even taking a class from anymore. It was an after-thought that the coach had actually used his name right the first time, with no hint of a stutter, no Bilinski or Biles as a first shot.

“What are you doing on the bleachers?” the coach asked.

“Uh- talking to Scott...”

“Where’s your uniform?”

“At home?”

"You want back on the team or what?" The coach asked. "Leaving your gear at home is not the kind of attitude that gets you back on the team."

Jaw hanging like a guppy, Stiles stared at the coach. There was no way he was hearing things right. The guy knew what had happened and why he hadn't been to practice in a _month_. Had Finstock just kind of slipped his brain into another dimension again? That was a thing he sometimes did.

"Uh. Coach... I switched tracks. They won't let me on the team," Stiles reminded the coach. He tried not to sound too bitter about it.

"Negative Nancies don't play lacrosse," Finstock replied. "Anybody else I want on the team, I'll put on the team. The board doesn't know shit about lacrosse. So are you in or out, Stilinski?"

Stiles looked to Scott and saw his friend with the big smug grin on his face.

"Told you, Coach kicked Shields off the basketball team. He got a little pissed at the poor sportsmanship," Scott said, quiet to keep the coach from easily snooping. Then Stiles glanced at Shawn, saw shock there on the surprised grin. He also noticed how Shawn sat up, curled his arm over his gut protectively. It grounded Stiles a little, reminded him of the danger in the sport. Shawn couldn't play any sports at all just then, not when there was a kid to be protected. Shawn couldn't even take up running and keep the baby guaranteed safe. One fall and the kid inside would be hurt.

If the weekend had gone differently, if Stiles' dad and his friends hadn't found him, he could have been in the same situation. He could have lost everything, could have been locked up or knocked up, and then no chance ever again at playing lacrosse. It seemed stupid to waste the opportunity while he had it so Stiles decided then to take it.

"I'll bring my stuff on Wednesday, Coach," he said. Scott let out a _whoop!_ and punched at the air.

"Good," said Finstock. He turned his attention to a Scott then. "McCall! Stop messing around with your boyfriends and get your ass on the field."

Stiles leveled his best " _I told you so_ " smugness at Scott and watched his friend run down the bleachers.

"You're really going to play?" Shawn asked from beside him. Stiles shrugged, nodded.

"Yeah. Scott normally lets me off the bench even," said Stiles.

"Malcolm is gonna be pissed," said Shawn. Stiles just grinned. That was a happy side-effect he hadn't considered yet.

"She'll get over it."

His phone rang then, reminding Stiles instantly that he had forgotten to tell his ride that he was staying for practice. It was actually Derek's phone because his dad hadn't had a chance to replace the one the hunters had busted yet. All the same, Jordan's name flashed up on the screen. Stiles answered quick.

"Hey! I'm at the field with Derek and Scott for practice..."

"Practice?" asked Jordan.

"Yeah. Lacrosse. And coach wants me back on the team," said Stiles.

"You're supposed to be at your Spanish class in less than an hour," Jordan pointed out. The happy buzz faded a little. "You can't do both. Not without a TimeTurner."

The geeky reference made Stiles happy but the situation sucked. "Well, I'll figure something out."

"So do you have to figure it out _today_? The parking lot isn't the most fascinating place in town..."

"Oh crap. You're here already?"

"School got out twenty minutes ago, Stiles," said Jordan. He at least sounded amused. But Stiles still shouldn't have forgotten to tell him. He apologized in between swear words as he tried to sort out how to handle it. He hadn't gotten to talk to Scott yet. When he told Shawn he had to leave to catch his ride, Shawn was quick to volunteer to stay.

"Can I still watch practice if I tell him you had to go?" Shawn asked. The question surprised Stiles a moment.

"Yeah, of course. It's a free country," said Stiles. But at the same time he understood the hesitance well enough. "Just... Maybe move down to behind the bench. And if somebody gives you crap, just get Scott. But you'll be fine."

So Shawn stayed behind and Stiles and Derek rushed out to meet their ride. Stiles wasn't settled about leaving. He wanted to talk to Scott. But life kept getting in the way and he didn't exactly have a pause button for that.


	21. Chapter 21

“So when are we telling your mother?” The question was loaded with good humor and teasing and yet Jordan still considered pretending he hadn’t heard it. It was a loaded question, period. His dad either wanted to know when they were telling his mom that he was married or he meant to know when they were telling his mother that Jordan could light things on fire when he got pissed off enough. Neither one were conversations he wanted to have any time soon because he didn’t know the actual outcome in either scenario; he was married on paper, but that didn’t mean it was going to stick, and he could light things on fire but that didn’t mean he knew what he was to cause it. Other than that he was part Hale apparently and _that_ was an entirely different topic that pissed him off enough he wanted to light things on fire and the only thing that kept him from it was the simple fact that he knew better. He couldn’t undo genetics.

“We’re not telling my mother,” Jordan said finally. He stabbed at his dinner a little harder than was probably necessary, the food was already dead after all. JT waited for an explanation that didn’t happen before he dared ask about it.

“I think your mom would love Stiles,” he offered. “The kid has his own spirit, and he’s got a good head on his shoulders to know what to do with it.”

“That’s the problem. That’s why we don’t tell her or anybody,” said Jordan. “It’s a piece of paper right now. Stiles needs to make up his own mind if it means anything to him. If it gets annulled when the legal stuff is done with, then that’s fine. He doesn’t need the whole state judging him over a piece of paper.”

“It’s more than a piece of paper,” said his dad. Jordan shook his head.

“No it’s not.”

“It is to you,” JT said. “I got a call from a nice lady matchmaker doing a background check on you. I know you, Jordan. You don’t do the matchmaker thing. You have no problems in that department finding your own match. So I can connect the dots just fine. You’re after _that_ one.”

Jordan stared at his plate, wishing they were at home and not in public. He finally shrugged and looked up. “It’s not exactly proper. I like my job, I respect my boss... I didn’t plan to fall for his kid...”

“Planning is overrated,” said his dad.

“Maybe, but doing right by the people who are important to you isn’t. So if they went to the matchmaker, I wanted to respect that. I mean, I know the woman. That’s Lydia’s mother. That... was the most awkward day of my life, Dad. But that’s all I know to do to make it right. You and mom have been married my whole life, I don’t know the rules to this courting stuff.”

“That’s a good thing-”

“No it’s not. What if-”

JT shook his head and leaned forward, making sure he had Jordan’s attention as he interrupted. “It is. Stiles doesn’t know the rules either. I don’t know much about him, but I’ve gotten the message pretty loud and clear from him already that he doesn’t like rules. He’s just himself. The rules are there to create uniformity, Jordan. A lie, to make everybody the same. That’s why your mom and I did things the way we did. Screw the rules. It’s better to be yourself.”

Jordan rolled his eyes. “Nice message, but it falls a little short considering my mom’s a judge and you’re still a stay-at-home dad. There are rules. They aren’t a lie. I’m a cop and I happen to believe in the rules. Law _enforcement_ , you know?”

“Not the same thing,” said his dad. “I’m not talking about rules at school, or rules on the job. I’m the one who got turned down at job interviews, to my face, because I had a wife and two kids at home to take care of instead. I think I know there are rules.”

The tone was just bitter enough to make Jordan feel guilty for the brief lecture he had given his dad. It didn’t stick around as his dad seemed to wave it off.

“I’m talking about the rules between human beings. There’s no script for this stuff. If you want to get somewhere with your boss’ son, here’s the secret.” And JT paused, made sure he had his attention. “You ask Stiles to dinner. You have a meal. You find out for yourself what’s important to the guy. That’s it. That’s all you have to worry about.”

“It’s not exactly proper...”

JT shrugged and pointed out, “Nobody else bothers with proper.”

“The rules are different with omegas,” said Jordan. He saw his dad’s frustrated face, the one he made when he was biting his tongue and disapproving as he silently disagreed. Jordan shook his head quickly. “No, Dad. They are. Stiles just had to change tracks for it all. They kicked him off the lacrosse team-”

“Which you just told me they let him back on-”

“But they still kicked him off. They let him back on because of he was taken from the school, that was pure politics and you know it. They were trying to kiss the sheriff’s ass so he doesn’t sue,” said Jordan. “And Stiles is having to figure all this stuff out. So I should do things right. It will help him out...”

The explanation didn’t earn him back any points with his dad and Jordan frowned at the mess he had walked into somehow. Finally his dad just shrugged.

“Go with your gut on it, kid. Just remember you’re both human. That’s the _rules_ ,” JT said. “And if you’re all that concerned about being proper, maybe ask your boss’ permission before you ask Stiles. If you want to do a full, formal courting, that’s how it starts. You ask the guardians. Your mom asked my parents. Start there.”

“The sheriff already signed the-”

“False pretenses are completely the wrong way to start this,” his dad warned. Jordan nodded, attention dropping to his water glass.

“Right. It was supposed to be temporary.” Sheriff Stilinski might have had a slightly different answer if he had known Jordan wouldn’t exactly mind a more long-term arrangement. _Shit_. He had to talk to his boss. And considering how much Stiles had insisted on sharing Jordan’s space at dinner the night before, that talk was going to be awkward. So very awkward.

 

***

 

Dinner got a little less weird after that and JT seemed to relax again. He did ask about “the other thing” and Jordan dodged it easily enough since nobody knew what it was that caused him to set things on fire. They couldn’t exactly talk about it in a restaurant. JT did tease things back around to Stiles though and Jordan accepted it, he was even smiling about it by the time they left. He was going to talk to his boss. He wasn’t going to phone it in, he wasn’t going to do it at work, It was going to be in person without a uniform in sight.

“It’s not too late, right?” Jordan asked. “I can go over there tonight. Try to catch the sheriff...”

“It’s probably not too late,” said JT. And his dad was laughing at him. That was great. Jordan laughed at himself too for it. He probably did sound like an idiot a little. The good humor disappeared as they showed up at the car and found Peter Hale sitting on the front bumper, waiting for them. He crossed his arms as they approached, his smile patently false.

“Evening,” he greeted. “You’re a hard pair to track down.”

“Stalking is actually a crime,” Jordan replied.

“I thought about inviting myself to dinner and passed,” Peter said. “Give me some credit here.”

Jordan carefully kept himself between Peter and JT, which seemed to frustrate the both of them. Too bad. “There’s nothing saying I have to.”

“I’m not actually looking to talk to you, Deputy. I told you.”

“That’s too bad. There’s nothing you need to say to my dad, either.”

JT Parrish caught his son by the scruff of the neck, hung over his shoulder as he stepped up beside him, not at all backing Jordan’s stubborn insistence that Peter walk off a cliff. “How about you settle down and let me sort out for myself if the guy needs to talk to me or not, hmm?” he asked.

So Jordan reluctantly backed off, physically, but he was no less alert than he started out. Peter stood up off the lean against the fender and angled toward JT to get in a fair word without having to worry about an attack from Jordan. Following his dad’s orders, Jordan took over the spot Peter left and he watched the two move a little further away. They stayed quiet and Jordan kept them in sight, even if they were on the other side of the car from him. There, JT let Peter run his interrogation, asking clear questions that were yes or no only, that there was no way to sidestep around. Jordan tried to tell himself not to listen but he did. He hadn’t known so much about where he came from and Peter was working explicitly at those questions. Did JT and Lilah target Peter at the bar? _Yes_. Did they know what they were doing? _Yes_. Did they ever consider letting the clueless donor know what they had done? _No_. Not even after Talia had gone to them? _Not even then_.

“Consenting adults, Peter. If you don’t bother to remember that sex results in babies, I’m not sure why it’s up to anybody else to remind you,” said JT, his usual quiet and calm self. He kept his voice quieter than usual because he was probably trying to keep Jordan out of the conversation but Jordan listened in anyway. “You were there to have a good time the same as us. That’s what we did. None of us were looking for a life-long threeway. Lilah and I wanted a kid. It happens a lot. So I’m not sure what you want to hear on this.”

“Your wife’s a judge. And you were fine just stealing someone’s kid?” Peter challenged.

“Uh, no. That’s _my_ kid,” returned JT. “I didn’t steal anyone.”

“Do I need to give you a biology lesson?” Peter’s voice raised a notch and Jordan got anxious. His dad looked over at him, waved for him to stay where he was. JT thought he could handle a psychopath. Great.

“No, because anybody who consciously takes a pass on the condoms doesn’t know enough about biology to give lessons,” returned JT. “Babies. _Happen_. And given your choices back then, I’m completely willing to bet you’ve got more than one you didn’t know about.”

Peter shoved JT against the car door then, making Jordan jump. He started around the car only to have his dad hold up a hand and silently order him to stay back. Peter had hold of the front of JT’s shirt and pinned him to the door but JT just met his angry stare and stayed cool.

“Malia!” Jordan said, the first thing that came to mind. “Okay? So he’s right. You’re still the idiot here.”

That didn’t exactly settle Peter away from trying to pick a fight with someone nowhere near his strength but it was still just as obvious to Jordan that the guy wasn’t applying the force he could have. He had seen Peter fight. He had seen the man pissed off. This was Peter playing nice. So Jordan kept his distance and tried it his dad’s way.

“So you wanna be pissed off about it, fine, I guess. But I know my kid,” said JT. He tugged at Peter’s hands wrapped in his shirt. “And this shit doesn’t win you any points with him.”

“None,” confirmed Jordan. Not that Peter really had a chance at that to begin with but Jordan wasn’t going to advertise that when the werewolf had his dad in his claws. Peter cut Jordan a brief glare but ultimately didn’t seem to care. He was still angry, attention still on JT.

“I keep track,” he said, so quiet Jordan could hardly hear. He was dealing with JT and Jordan was a non-concern. “And this one isn’t going to go away.”

“I guess you could move,” suggested JT. “But this is Jordan’s home. So I don’t care what your hangup is, you leave him alone.”

Jordan was beyond frustrated with his father at that point; if JT had even the slightest knowledge of what he was dealing with, why the hell was he provoking a werewolf? Peter gave him another hard shake and then, before JT had a chance to do much more than shove at him again, the werewolf kissed him, a hard liplock that JT shoved back against the truck to get away from. Peter pulled back before Jordan got to them to break it up. JT just followed after him a step to deck the man across the face. It was a pitiful retaliation and Peter smiled after it, even if he did work his jaw like he’d felt it. Jordan’s dad caught him by the shoulder to keep either one of them from pursuing the fight.

“This is my town,” Peter said, a warning. “Play nice if you’re going to make it a family affair. You're the only ones with anything to lose at that game, right? Mine’s already gone.”

It felt like a threat and Jordan wasn’t sure how to handle it. But Peter backed off, left the parking lot like a shadow. Jordan herded his dad into the cab of the truck and made sure to lock the door - not like it really would deter a werewolf - before leaving to climb behind the wheel himself. When he sat down and got the car going, JT was wiping a hand across his mouth.

“You okay?” he asked, worried. JT just nodded.

“Bastard bit me,” he muttered. Jordan blinked and tried to get past the swearing. He had heard more of that in a single night from his dad so far than he had his whole life. JT didn’t seem to notice. “I need a drink.”

Jordan nodded. It wasn’t a bad idea. He started to pull the truck out of the parking spot but his dad caught his attention. “You were going to the Stilinskis’ first.”

Jordan scoffed. “Not exactly the time.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what Peter says, Jordan. I told you, you’re your mom’s kid. You’re mine. The genetics involved aren’t important. So don’t let that... jerk... get in your head about it,” said JT. Jordan was still worked up just enough that when he looked over at his dad, his eyes glowed just enough to be noticed. JT stared, attention diverted from his own bloody lip.

“You’re kind of wrong on that one, Dad,” said Jordan. “So I guess I have to figure out how to deal with it.”

“Right.” JT nodded. “Shit, does Stiles know?”

Jordan actually managed a smile at that, the one thing he wasn’t worried about when it came to Stiles Stilinski. “Probably better than I do.”

“I’m going to take that as a good thing then and tell you to get your ass to the Stilinskis’ ASAP,” his dad said, grinning back. Jordan rolled his eyes.

“I dunno. Stiles is already a terrible influence on you. I’m a little worried.”

His dad let out a laugh and just clapped him on the shoulder. All the same, Jordan pointed the truck toward his boss’ house.


	22. Chapter 22

Stiles got home from his college class to find Scott camped out on his front steps. No longer in wolf-mode, dressed like a human, and fully capable of human conversation, Derek made them have their chat inside rather than loiter on the porch. Since the sheriff was still at work for another hour, he was still on babysitting duty and didn't consider Scott sufficient replacement. Stiles was pretty sure he liked the sarcastic wolf better than the over-protective two-legged version but he couldn't exactly complain. The babysitter-gig was stupid and he hated having an escort at school but at the same time, Stiles was jumpy and paranoid and school was stressing him out. To add to that, there was the annoying fact that the moon was up and that meant his system was in chaos naturally, without any stress from school needed to help it along, and heat sucked and made Stiles cranky enough. Having an actual friend to watch his back made it bearable. He went to the kitchen in search of dinner and waved for Scott to follow.

"I want to clear something up," Stiles said as he dug into a cupboard for peanut butter.

"I know, I screwed up. And I'm sorry," said Scott. The peanut butter jar almost fell on Stiles' head, he was nearly too surprised to catch it. It fumbled around until it was dropped on the counter and then Stiles turned back to Scott.

"Right, so, then... What did you screw up, exactly?" he asked. "Just to make sure we're both on the same track here."

"I got too worried about the rules and I wasn't listening," said Scott. "I just didn't want you to get in more trouble."

"That's awesome except, you know, I'm in charge of me. Not you," said Stiles.

"Yeah, but you're my friend and I kinda thought you were going a little insane for a minute there," Scott said. He must have seen the warning on Stiles face because he tried to back pedal a little. "I mean come on. You were making out with Jackson at the party-"

"And _Lydia_ , thank you," said Stiles.

Scott was quick to nod. "So see? Not normal."

"Normal. Totally normal.," said Stiles. Exactly what did Scott think he knew about his friend if he hadn’t figured out by now that Stiles would take whatever-and-whenever sexing up he could get from the likes of Lydia Martin? He could be forgiven for not seeing the Jackson reveal coming, but Lydia was part of a ten-year plan. Stiles dogging Lydia was perfectly normal. “But you did the same thing everybody else did to me. Everybody freaked out because of the omega. Nobody remembered I've kind of _always_ been one.”

Scott shook his head. "You had to switch tracks. That changed it."

Stiles shrugged it off. "Yeah, maybe it changed my school stuff, but what's that got to do with you, man? You're my friend, not my teacher or something."

"Not your alpha." Scott seemed very unhappy about the observation of now-established fact.

"No way. I don’t want an alpha. You know what wolf packs use omegas for?" asked Stiles. He shook his head just to be sure it was clear. "We're _breeders_ to them. _That's_ why Peter's nice to me. That's what I'm _for_."

"That's because Peter's an ass," said Scott.

"Yeah. And you were being a pretty spectacular one the last few weeks," replied Stiles. "So I want to make sure we're square on this. Am I just an omega you have to boss around? Just a job, with all the other alpha-stuff?"

It was the only neutral offer Stiles would make on the issue. Scott could say yes if he wanted to play fair and be nice, and Stiles would let him live, this once. Partly because he'd had a shitty weekend that had done a great job of realigning his priorities in life but mostly because he was hungry and didn't have time to care about the drama if Scott wanted to keep it alive. To his credit, Scott seemed to catch the resignation in his voice, seemed to think twice about how to answer.

"You are my friend. You're like my brother, man. And, I mean, I get that I screwed up. But I don't think you know what you're up against and it's... _scary_. You basically had to drop out of school. That's like... You did one thing wrong and it changed _everything_. Switching tracks didn't just mess up your life, you know? I noticed," said Scott. He seemed upset more by what he was talking about than at Stiles, so Stiles heard him out.

"I mean, maybe the track can teach you stuff you didn't know. And there's a lot you don't know. When I got bit? I could suddenly hear the shit people said in class - every class - about you, about you being slow and stupid and broken. They didn't say it to your face, they said it to each other. You _can't_ fit in on the Alpha Track because they won't let you. So, I mean, I hate the switch, but I really think it's better. So you're away from that, and you can learn what you need to in order to fit in. I just think you should give it a chance."

Scott's perspective offered nothing helpful to life as Stiles knew it. He tried to concentrate on making himself desperately needed food rather than think about it for a moment. He wanted to trust Scott, to believe that his friend didn't mean the things he had said at school and at the bowling alley. But at the same time...

"You've been dealing with hearing people talk about me like a broken omega for two years?" he asked. He kept his attention on his sandwich instead of looking up at Scott.

"Yeah. I mean, not _everybody_ or anything. But when you would get hyper in class, or if somebody heard you swear in the halls. It was like a joke to people," said Scott. "People are jerks. And when Allison told me about her aunt? I freaked out. I don't want you around her family still. This weekend only made that worse, you know? Nobody on the Alpha Track would help you if you got in trouble and they didn't. I was right."

" _You_ weren't there," said Stiles. "And you did a good job at not showing up the last couple weeks. So don't blame everybody else in the track."

"Why're you blaming me for not telling you what they said till now? What could you do about it?"

"I'd _say_ something."

"You gonna take on the whole world? Random people on the sidewalk? I was trying to help," argued Scott.

Stiles nodded, because he would and he did. "And I still wanna know, are you helping because I'm me and I'm your friend or are you just looking out for the neighborhood omega?"

The question seemed to exhaust Scott to hear as much as it made Stiles to say it.

"I'm looking out for my friend!"

" _Except_ when I try to talk to you or hang out with our friends. Then you're around long enough to tell me what to do, like an alpha. Tell me I need an escort, or I need to let the school decide what's best for me," returned Stiles. He was quiet but no less bitter. "Which, just as a side note, I have an escort now so you can back off on _that_ issue."

That derailed Scott for a moment and he shook his head at Stiles for it. "Derek’s not family-"

Stiles waved a hand to dismiss it. "No, he's pack, but no, it's not Derek. It doesn't matter. I'm on paper now, so where I am and who I'm with is somebody else's _responsibility_. Not yours. You don’t have to worry somebody’s going to blame you. So you can just stop shoving that at me, okay? Stop telling me you know what’s best. I can figure that stuff out myself, alright?”

“But you don’t know both sides,” said Scott.

“Yeah, well neither do you,” said Stiles. “So maybe let me figure it out and deal with stuff myself. We’re not talking about potential death and dismemberment if I screw up and don’t fit in trying to play with the alphas. I wasn’t bit. I’m not rampaging. I just want to finish school and not go insane to do it. And I want to go to college too, whether you approve of it or not.”

Scott didn't approve of it, his expression said that clear enough, but he didn't say anything about it. He just nodded his head, placating. Stiles didn’t quite buy it.

“I mean it, Scott. Can you do that? Or is this gonna be a thing that keeps happening?” he asked. “I don’t want to go back and forth on this with you any more. We either settle it or we don’t bother. I can’t repeat the last couple weeks.”

Scott crossed his arms and closed up, frowning at Stiles like he had just revealed some dark secret. Movement in the doorway caught their attention and Stiles glanced over to see Derek leaned against the wall, quietly supervising after Stiles set out the ultimatum. Scott acknowledged him enough to be sure there was no threat and mostly kept his attention on Stiles.

“Were they right, then? When Derek and Jordan said I made you sick?” he asked. Stiles stared at him a moment before he huffed out a sarcastic laugh and shook his head.

“No, _I_ made me sick, but yeah, you being a jerk is a big trigger,” he said. “I’ll hang with my friends. But like you said, I’m off the Alpha Track. I don’t want to deal with that BS anymore. So pick one.”

“Friends,” said Scott, automatic and with no hesitation. Intentionally diverting his attention to the massive, messy PB&J sandwich he had distractedly assembled while they talked, Stiles mulled the answer over. He wanted to believe Scott. But he also knew his friend’s ability to say one thing like he believed it and yet still _do_ another entirely.

“For what it’s worth,” Derek offered up from the door. “He wasn’t lying.”

After another moment of stalling, another bite of sandwich down, Stiles nodded. “Yeah, I know,” he said. He shrugged and chomped at his sandwich, the load on his shoulders a little lighter even though it wasn’t gone. “But the jerk messed me up for two weeks. I can mess with his head for two minutes. Karma is a thing.”

Derek rolled his eyes at the logic. “That’s not how karma works.”

“Then fine. He’s my stupid brother so I’ll mess with his head if I want,” replied Stiles. The grin slipped finally and Scott saw it despite the sandwich Stiles tried to hide it behind. It was met with a big smile and Scott pounced on Stiles with a hug. It wasn’t actually expected and Stiles almost choked on peanut butter, but he recovered and hugged his friend in return. All the same, Stiles was hungry, so he didn’t set the sandwich down on the counter, and he chewed at his food despite the fact that Scott hung around his neck for a minute.

“Dude...” he said when Scott didn’t bother to let go in a reasonably timely fashion. “I’m seriously _starving_. Can we, like, move this to the fridge or something at least?”

 

***

 

It was surprising to discover that the calm, always adult, wise and experienced presence in Jordan's life was actually a willful enabler of bad ideas. His dad wouldn't let him chicken out of talking to the sheriff. Jordan had perfectly valid reasons to avoid the conversation, one of them being the fact that Stiles' life was in a state of upheaval and had been for weeks so a crush was the last thing he needed to deal with. JT had perfectly valid counterpoints to each of them; yes, Stiles was stressed, but life never waited for the stars to line up perfectly in every situation. Remembering how Stiles had glued himself to Jordan's side at dinner the night before didn't help. They were on the same page and could probably make a go of it.

All that kept them from seeing what could happen was a conversation with Jordan's boss. Who happened to be the county sheriff. Who also happened to be someone Jordan respected. And there was the small detail that the sheriff was licensed to carry lethal weapons and well-versed in the various ways of bending the laws of the land.

"I like my job," Jordan reminded his dad as they sat in the truck outside of Stiles' home.

"You like Stiles," JT pointed out in return. "And he likes you well enough. He was bright pink all through dinner last night and I know he cornered you in the lobby when his dad was talking to Derek."

Jordan hadn't exactly been cornered so much as run-away-with and they had a whole waiting area to themselves for nearly three minutes. That was how Jordan had discovered that Stiles was very handsy when he was happy. It wasn't something Jordan could see himself ever complaining about.

All he had to do to get back to it was, of course, talk to his boss. He talked to his boss all the time. No problem.

"It has to help that you're already married," said JT at exactly the worst possible moment.

"Oh. Shit." Jordan lightly beat his forehead against the steering wheel. His dad shoved at his shoulder.

"Get out already, Jordan. Come on..."

Jordan used it as momentum to shove himself out the door.

 

***

 

The front porch was lit and welcoming but Jordan fidgeted like a perp under a hot lamp. His dad stayed in the car at the curb but he was still looking on, snooping, which didn't help. It was like a contest or something, a judge lurking off stage to score the performance. It poked at Jordan's cooperative nature.

But then something clicked for him. It was what his dad had tried to tell him at dinner. He knew his boss, he knew Stiles. They knew him, what he was capable of and what he had shown he would do for them and their friends. Yeah, they were all human, if a little roughed up lately. But that was what they expected from Jordan. They expected him to be himself, not someone nervous and fidgeting and anxious because of a simple conversation. Jordan usually felt like he could be himself around both of the Stilinskis, which was kind of a significant factor in the reasoning that had him standing on their porch to begin with.

There was no sense losing that over the society-dictated rules Jordan didn't actually know much about anyway. He trusted the sheriff and Stiles, and more than that, he trusted his own instincts. His gut said this was the right move, despite everything he felt like he didn't know yet.

Jordan took a breath and squared his shoulders, reset his perspective from the anger and worry he had been carrying around for days. This was something he could do.

When the door opened, he was even smiling.

"Uh. Not the pizza guy..." Stiles greeted, if it could be called a greeting. His mouth was full, half of a cheese stick hanging out like a cigar. The amused surprise must have shown on Jordan's face because Stiles instantly snatched the food away and swallowed what he had been chewing of it.

"Hi..." It was hard to tell in the yellow light of the porch if Stiles was blushing or not but the embarrassed tone said he was. That made Jordan happy, boosted his confidence even as it made thinking a little fuzzy.

"Hi," Jordan echoed. "And no, I'm not the pizza guy..."

"Good career choice," said Stiles with a nod. "Which, uh, I guess you're here to see Dad, huh?"

"Yes. But... Don't disappear or anything. It's about you, and the married-on-paper thing," Jordan said. He really did see the blush that time and Stiles looked worried.

"Look, uh... I was kinda wasted on Sunday... And Derek told me after class about how I kind of jumped you at dinner and I'm sorry if- I mean, if that's what-"

Just in case his boss was within hearing range, Jordan reached over and held a hand over Stiles' mouth, held a finger up to his own lips in a hint. All the same, he was smiling, probably blushing a little himself.

"Stressful weekend, and you were coming back from withdrawal. My dad recognized what was going on with you and gave the rest of us a heads up," said Jordan. "You didn't jump me."

"But I don't remember-"

That saddened Jordan and his grin faded. "Do you remember the locker room at the station?"

Looking embarrassed, Stiles nodded. Jordan relaxed a little, his amusement returning.

"It was like that. Except your hands were a little more involved in the- _everything_..." Jordan knew he was going to have one helluva time keeping a sober face now when he got to talk to his boss because the lobby at dinner was right at the front of his mind. It was occupying Stiles' too; his cheeks were definitely pink and he seemed to have forgotten the food in his hand.

"So can I talk to your dad or..." The question trailed off because Stiles didn't look exactly reassured.

"About _that_? Not the best idea... Bad things happen when I get busted for that stuff..."

"No, Stiles," said Jordan quickly. Damn, he was screwing up all over this anyway. "I mean... Remember when you said we should talk about the annulment before we got one? That's what I want to talk to him about. If it's alright with your dad... Would you like to go to dinner with me this week? Maybe a movie-"

"Dad and Lydia said _no_ movies, so I am _completely_ down with that idea," said Stiles. The earlier tension had turned into surprise instead, his body language once again his normal relaxed. Jordan smiled back at him, relief making him breathe again when he hadn't realized he had been putting that off in the first place.

"So... Your dad?"

"Right. Uh..." Stiles pushed the door open and stepped back inside, waving Jordan after him. Then he called into the house for his dad. That’s when Jordan remembered why he stood on the Stilinskis’ porch in the first place and he considered relocating to his car. Stiles caught his hand before he could and pulled him over the threshold.


	23. Chapter 23

They tracked the sheriff down easy enough in the living room. Stiles’ dad was just standing to go find them when they showed up.

"Jordan," the sheriff greeted. He checked his watch and then noted that his deputy wasn't in uniform on a day off. "Something wrong?"

"Nosir,"Jordan replied. He hoped he was still smiling and didn't look as nervous as he felt. "I just stopped in to ask if maybe I could take your son to dinner this week."

Jordan could practically see his boss mentally trip over the question. "Wait. Scuse me?"

"Sheriff, I would like to go on a date - an _actual_ date, not just homemade food at the station- with Stiles. With your permission, I would like to court your son," Jordan said. He was nervous and wasn't sure he trusted his voice, felt like he was some twelve year old who squeaked too much, but he was determined to get it out anyway. He waved his hands in a final-cut, clearing the air. "Full disclosure, sir? I went to the matchmakers - to Natalie - last week, before everything went all to- I mean, she knew. That's why she told you to have me sign the papers. I... I wanted to give it a shot anyway, and if that's not something you want for your son, I respect that and she knows I wouldn't disrespect you or him with my name on the forms and-"

The ramble quieted when Stiles brushed his shoulder against Jordan's, probably an accident but enough to ground him. He had their undivided attention.

"So I guess I just don't want an accidental marriage to interfere with the chance to maybe make a real one," Jordan said. The casual tone he was aiming for was probably botched. It wasn't until that moment, until he said it out loud, to his boss of all people, that it hit home just what Jordan was asking.

Courting was a long-term promise for omegas, it wasn't just a date, or a few months with no strings, just to see where it would go. Courting went to marriage. That was the whole purpose and intent. And he and Stiles had been roped into doing it backwards. Even with the best intent, at the end of the day, they were already legal, already on paper, already a family.

On a practical level, he knew dating an omega for even six months was on par with an engagement; their social standing determined their actual ability to keep a roof over their own heads. They couldn't get jobs that paid enough to live on, they needed to make their way through creating a family. There was a reason matchmakers had such a high success rate, since their clientele was highly motivated to succeed. That was all easy to comprehend and process and Jordan had considered it before, decided he liked the idea weeks ago even before he went to Natalie about it.

Staring at his boss, - the county sheriff, Stiles' dad- however, Jordan realized that just because he liked the idea of something didn't mean he really knew what to do with the reality of it. Daydreams were one thing, but there were other people involved in the real world, not shadow-puppets. Jordan didn't really know what the sheriff would think of a deputy effectively asking to take Stiles from him in a few months. And he sure as hell didn't know what Stiles thought of that. It didn't help that they both stared at him, their expressions a perfect match and baffled.

"I mean- if you _want_ to," he said, trying to reassure mostly Stiles. "The license can be annulled as soon as it's safe and we can wait..."

The words hung in the air and the sudden quiet seemed loud. Jordan wasn't sure how to interpret the silence or the way Stiles stared at him. The usual mild amusement didn't lurk below the surface this time. Instead, Stiles' expression was a close study, intent observation under very clear disbelief. Jordan stared back at him, trying to read him, hoping for a hint. He just couldn't tell. Maybe there was a flaw in the short-engagement scenario for omegas if Jordan still couldn't read Stiles' mood after almost a month of afternoons in his company.

"You mean that?" The sheriff's question dragged Jordan's attention away from Stiles. The interrogation was about to begin. His boss pointed a finger at him without uncrossing his arms, which seemed to promise a very negative outcome. "You want to _court_ Stiles, with the _guaranteed outcome_ of a standing marriage? Because this town is too small. If it gets around that you're together, that he's married, that annulment turns into a divorce in the court of public opinion and _he's_ the one stuck with it. Not you."

Jordan nodded. "Yeah. I know."

"This was supposed to be a temporary thing, an emergency loophole to close off," the sheriff added. "I didn't think I was signing him over to anyone. His signature's not on that license. It wasn't his idea."

Again, Jordan nodded. "I know. That's why I'm asking now. I couldn't last night, he wouldn't have remembered. I don't have to have an answer now... But I thought you should know. Natalie had set up a date on Friday and we kind of didn't make it to the restaurant. That doesn't mean I don't want to try it again."

Stiles let out a sudden, short laugh. His dad stopped glaring at Jordan and looked askance at Stiles.

"After the last two dates failed all over, Natalie said she would set one up for Friday but she didn't say who it was with, just told Lydia to make sure I showed up," said Stiles, still amused under an obvious disregard for the scheme. "I kind of am _done_ with the whole thing and I didn't call Natalie back to find out who it was with. I wasn't even gonna show."

Somehow Stiles found that funny, while Jordan had a moment of panic over it. He hadn't really thought he might get stood up. Then he realized what Stiles found so funny.

"Just, for future reference, maybe if you want to skip out on a date, it's a little easier to just cancel it or something. The whole kidnapping thing... Not an advisable tactic," Jordan pointed out.

"It didn't even work, you _still_ showed up," said Stiles. He had stopped the quiet laugh and settled on staring at Jordan again, a smile on his face.

"Yeah. Since I didn't have any other plans for the night, seemed like a good idea at the time," replied Jordan.

"At the time," echoed Stiles, huffing out laughter again. His dad coughed, politely and intentionally reminding Stiles that he was still present.

"And a couple days later, we're talking about an actual marriage. Whether that's a good idea or just was _at the time_ ," said Stiles' dad. Jordan was full of good ideas about the whole scenario at the moment but he was careful not to share any of them.

"It's a conversation worth having," said Stiles, nodding.

"Doesn't have to be right now," said Jordan, not sure how to read his boss' less than happy expression. "I wanted to get your permission."

"It's not really mine you have to worry about," came the reply. The sheriff nodded toward Stiles. "Anything I tell him to do, he won't. Anything I tell him not to do, he does. That's what you have to worry about right there."

Jordan looked to Stiles, saw the wounded and yet still smug grin in place. He was afraid to ask for a translation.

"Stiles?" The sheriff asked. "Do you follow what he's asking?"

Stiles nodded. "Yeah, I get it."

"You gonna think about it a while?" his dad asked. Jordan might have held his breath.

"I think he's crazy, maybe," said Stiles. The words were harsh but Jordan knew Stiles well enough to recognize the casual, almost playful tone. And Stiles still seemed in a state of something like surprise. "Because I'm a pain the ass and nobody actually wants me around if they know what's good for them. And I can get _character references_ on that."

"And yet I don't think he wants to _adopt_ you," said Stiles' dad. He blinked and shook his head. "Which even _that_ baffles me. So this, just for the record, I don't get at all." He motioned between Jordan and Stiles. Stiles looked like he had just been challenged and the sheriff rolled his eyes. "I didn't say I disapprove, I said it _baffles_ me, because I know both of you. And it baffles me."

Stiles squinted at his dad. "Is this part of the sales pitch because-"

"Oh my god," said Jordan and his boss at almost the same moment for entirely different reasons. His boss sounded annoyed but Jordan was slowly losing his grip on reality. He had told them he didn't need an answer right away but the dancing around the idea was just torment. Stiles liked it well enough.

"Really?" he asked Jordan. "Courting? The whole formal deal?"

"Well, as formal as you get, yeah," said Jordan.

"No more escorts?" Stiles asked. Jordan started to shake his head but his boss interrupted.

"Yes! There will be escorts. And there will be mandatory double dates, minimum, I don't care if there's a piece of paper giving license to anything otherwise," said the sheriff. Jordan tried not to be offended. The sheriff pointed at him and then Stiles. "It's not my deputy I don't trust in that scenario, by the way. It's my kid. Just to be perfectly clear on that."

Disappointed but no less smug, Stiles just rolled his eyes.

"Understood," said Jordan. He wasn't about to argue.

"Brown nosing is not cool, man," Stiles told him for it.

"He's gonna brown-nose until he gets an answer," said the sheriff. "And regardless of answer, escorts or no deal."

"Fine, then get on the phone with Melissa, because there are double dates in our immediate future and you did it to yourself," Stiles returned. The answer was buried under the sass but Jordan caught it all the same. He looked from his boss to Stiles and back. He had one half of his answer, the most important half even. But the sheriff could still ruin Jordan's already very weird day.

"If it's what Stiles wants, then fine. Permission granted," Stiles' dad finally said. "But you hurt my kid, you're fired. And if my kid gets pregnant before he has a chance to finish high school, I promise you that you will _wish_ you were fired. Am I clear?"

"Yessir," Jordan replied, quick and no less sincere.

" _Trial-basis_ courting," the sheriff added. It was a new thing he was just making up, like he was clinging to a status quo he didn’t want to change yet. "If the annulment needs to happen, fine. So behave yourselves and keep the whole town from finding out, huh?"

"We were at the station," Stiles pointed out. "The new jerk-detective knows. And anybody else..."

"And Natalie," Jordan added. "Which means Lydia."

"And Derek," said Stiles. "And Scott. And Shawn."

The sheriff stared at them like he had discovered a long-lost tribe of idiots no one wanted back.

"Did you take out an ad in the paper?" he asked. He sounded tired.

"Nope, not yet," said Stiles. His dad _looked_ tired and like Stiles was a very direct cause if it.

"Well do you think we can maybe _avoid_ that, at least until you sort this out?" he asked.

"Not a problem," Stiles promised. He caught Jordan's hand in his, leaned into his arm to bodily steer him from the room. "Scuse us, Dad. Gotta go talk courting stuff."

"I still have to work with him, you know," the sheriff called after them. "Keep it clean."

They hit the stairs and Jordan refused to go up. "I don't want to be _killed_ at work tomorrow," he whispered at Stiles. Stiles grunted at him, frustrated, and then dragged him to the kitchen instead. Safer territory than a bedroom so Jordan didn't fuss.

"Did you mean all that?" he asked. He wasn't whispering but he wasn't sharing with the household, either. "Not a joke, not a prank or a psych-out or something. Like, you're talking _no_ annulment and all the _till deaths_ and-"

"Yes, Stiles," replied Jordan. "That's what I just said."

"But... I mean, why? Have you even _met_ me? Are you crazy?"

"Oh my god, Stiles-"

Stiles shook his head and still cornered him against the kitchen table. "No take-backs, Jordan. That's what supposed to happen. I can't screw anything up or my dad gets stuck with me for _life_ -"

"I know. I get it-"

Jordan quieted because the smug taunts from the living room around his dad had faded back under the pressure from stress and self doubt. Stiles wasn't worried so much as he seemed bewildered. " _Me_ , though?"

"Yes, you. Unless there's two of you. In which case I want the one who hoarded the donuts and made the Yodas and who keeps trying to tell his school to go to hell and won't listen when somebody tells him what to do. I don't know what to do with that and it's weird and scary and I like it. And that's all you," said Jordan. "So yeah, I mean _you_."

Stiles just stared at him for a moment, struck stupid. Then he rambled.

"Can I kiss you now?" Stiles asked. "Is that definitely a thing we can do? Because I really think I need to-"

So Jordan stepped in closer and kissed him to shut him up. It worked like a charm. Stiles settled down a little, caught his hands at Jordan's hips to keep them from wandering to other parts, and Jordan relaxed for the first time since stepping into the Stilinskis' home.

He eased back enough to break the kiss, touched his forehead to Stiles' to stare at amber-brown eyes from too close to hide.

"Just think it over, alright? I'm not in a hurry or anything. I just had to... Put it out there. I want to do things right," he said, hushed by the shared space. Stiles nodded and snuck another kiss. And another after that when he got away with the first. Jordan interrupted it with a smile and eased away.

"My dad's in the car on his own. Your dad probably wants me out of his house, anyway," he said. "I need to go."

Stiles let go but didn't back off quite yet.

"I want to try it. Date and see where it goes," he said.

"Courting," Jordan corrected. Stiles shrugged it off.

"Don't wanna get handed the annulment stuff to sign," he replied as a clarification. Jordan still smiled at him for it.

"Then we see where we go," said Jordan. "A marriage license on a piece of paper is just a piece of paper. We can figure it out."

On impulse, Jordan tugged his ring off his hand. There was a tradition with courting, giving gifts, a token or a keepsake, just as a reminder. It wasn't exactly proper to hand out rings, but it wasn't exactly proper to get married _before_ courting, either. They were making things up just to start with.

"Here... This is my academy ring. For right now? Hang on to that and later, if it works out, we'll get real rings... But for now, that's my promise," Jordan said. "I'm not kidding, I don't think I'm crazy, and I think I want just you, everyday, because you keep things... interesting."

He folded the ring in to Stiles' hand to hang on to. They were talking about big things, on the heels of a bad weekend, and Jordan wasn't going to make him wear it or announce anything with it. It was just to keep safe, just for them. Stiles stared at it for a moment before he shook his head.

"I don't have anything to give you..." he began.

"That's not how it's supposed to go," replied Jordan. "You don't have to-"

"No, but I want to," said Stiles. "Tradition can get stuffed. It's a two way street."

Jordan couldn't argue with that and he watched, curious as Stiles suddenly dug at his shirt collar and pulled up a chain necklace. He was surprised to see military dog tags on the chain as Stiles tugged it over his head. Then he put it in Jordan's hand and the photos glued to the back peeked out. Jordan thought he recognized Stiles' dad on one, and he had seen the picture of a very young Stiles on the sheriff's desk at work.

"That's my mom's," Stiles said. "I stole it. You lose it and I will _kill you_ slowly."

"Understood." The empty threat just made Jordan smile. Without thinking, he put it on and tucked it in his jacket, like Stiles had worn it. "I won't lose it."

Stiles watched him, the good humor tempered by serious thought.

"I think I like this," he said. Jordan nodded his agreement.

"Me too," he said.

"I know," said Stiles, slowly creeping toward smug again. Jordan caught at Stiles’ shirt and tugged him closer for another kiss to seal the promises they had just made to each other. It was exciting, it promised a lot of things and Jordan had no idea what to expect from any of them. But he liked it when Stiles was in his space.

Just then, Jordan's phone buzzed in his pocket and he checked it to find a text from his dad, asking if he was still alive or if JT should call for help from an outside county. He showed it to Stiles and that only made the wry smile a little bigger. Stiles leaned in for another sneaky kiss and dodged away.

"I'll see you in the morning, right?" he asked. He was already distracted, playing with the ring in his hand as they walked back out to the foyer and the front door.

"I'll be here," Jordan promised. Stiles opened the door and saw him out to the porch again. The ring kept getting rolled around in his palm, a thorough enough distraction, but not enough to keep him from snagging Jordan in a hug at the step. When Jordan finally made it out to the truck, his dad's face already giving him the impatient demand for details from the passenger seat, he looked back at the porch as he climbed in the truck cab. There was no missing the glint of gold off the ring already on Stiles' left hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--------
> 
> The End!
> 
> _...for now, because i'm completely incapable of ever actually finishing anything ever and tech has more ideas than will fit in one fic..._
> 
> :)


End file.
